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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192197">You're coming back and it's the end of the world</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalalaikaPattycake/pseuds/BalalaikaPattycake'>BalalaikaPattycake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>"I'll rewrite this whole life and this time, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, pls read tho, so don't expect anything super realistic, there'll be so much love, this is what happens after the book in my head, usual tgf trigger warning apply:, whats the quote, you won't be able to see beyond it"</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:20:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>76,606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalalaikaPattycake/pseuds/BalalaikaPattycake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>We spent hours joking and laughing at the bar over a bottle of vodka, our heads together, just like we had done as boys. Trying to convince myself that the only reason I was holding my hand on his shoulder, giggling in his ear, my face mere inches away from his, was because otherwise he wouldn't hear me over the music, even though he was the one doing most of the talking. I had been drinking considerably less than normal over the past few months, so it didn't take me long to start feeling disoriented and weirdly courageous, the mass of people around me blending into each other, becoming unidentifiable like droplets of water in an ocean, with only Boris standing out as a steady beacon of light.</p><p>Set after the book ends, Theo and Boris meet again after a year and half.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>178</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>266</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I need you, I need you very much. I have nothing to write to you about myself, I have nothing to tell you about. That is not what I wanted; I wish terribly much that you should be happy. Are you happy? That is the only thing I wanted to tell you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Fyodor Dostoevsky “The Idiot"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The light from the setting sun glided over the honey-colored stone facade of the building opposite my hotel room, illuminating the windows in an orange glow. Sitting on my small balcony in Montpellier old town, I watched the clouds grow out of nowhere, filling the cerulean sky in a myriad of white, pink and faint blush blossoms. Lazily slinking over the moss covered roofs and drifting towards the sea. After the frantic bustle of tourists in the city center, it was strange how empty our barren alleyway was. I hadn't seen anyone in almost an hour, except for the old waiter from the cafe facing the hotel, with whom I was coincidentally sharing a cigarette break with. All life seemed to have paused, filling me with an apocalyptic sense of dread and serenity. Not a person in sight, just me and the old waiter, smoking in our opposite corners of the street.</p><p> </p><p>I could still distinctly remember how he had looked like when I last saw him. His dark coat perfectly matching the black of the car he was leaning against, hands in pockets, expression nonchalant <em>See you later, Potter!</em> he'd smiled. I thought I'd seen a slight falter in that smile before I grabbed my bag to head inside the airport. Was he feeling as alone and empty as I was leaving him? The time I'd spent with him in Antwerp had felt like a distant echo of Vegas - the days sprayed out on the sofa in front of the TV, eating take out food and leftover Christmas candy, hours spent going through his collection of DVDs and vinyl records. At night smoking pot on the narrow rusty balcony, wrapped up in thick layers of sweaters and scarves, watching the stars appear and fade. Even after all those years of separation, we hadn't lost the fervor to talk and talk until time lost all meaning. Nor the ability to sit side by side in complete silence, passing the joint comradely. With the weight of the painting gone between us, everything felt light and easy for awhile. In that small part of Europe, in his small lot at the upper left corner of the building, it seemed like we were cut off from the rest of the world, like we had ultimately realized what we'd promised as kids.</p><p>But then, on my last day, he had only carelessly agreed to keep in contact without mentioning anything else, so I hadn't been sure what to say. I kept waiting for him to say something as I packed my bag, got to the car and walked towards the airport doors. But he hadn't. So I just waved and walked off, certain that he had waltzed himself out of my life again, just as easily as he had coming into it. It was his way, I guess, coming and going as he pleased. Constant motion was and is, after all, the defining feature of his life.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Coming to NY! When will u get back from FR??? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I had just signed off the check to buy back Hobie's gorgeously crafted, but nonetheless inauthentic Chippendale dresser – one of the last stops on my redemption pilgrimage – when his text came through. Contrary to my expectations, we had been texting with surprising assiduity since Antwerp, but there had been no talk of meeting up during that year and a half, no hint of our paths crossing again. At least so it had seemed.</p><p><em>15th</em>, I hesitated, <em>Popper misses you.</em> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>I was trying to keep myself busy at the shop as I waited for Boris. He had some business to take care of before coming to see me, but as usual, he wasn't anymore specific than that. It was raining heavily so I expected to see his car, but the street was mostly empty, only a few figures hurrying past the shop with black umbrellas turned against the wind and rain. As I bent over the desk to add up the sales of the day, he burst through the front door, soaked to the bone.</p><p>"Potter!" he shouted, not at all troubled by the fact that he was dripping all over the shop floor and held his arms out for an embrace. His dark curls were sparkling with raindrops and a wide grin, showing off almost all of his American whites, spread across his flushed face.</p><p>"Jesus, did you walk here?" I asked, feeling the cold water seep through my shirt.</p><p>"Gyuri was in a bad mood so I gave him the day off, didn't realize it was raining harder than horse piss before I was out the door."</p><p>"A what?" I laughed as I locked up the shop and looked over his dripping clothes. He was wearing a dark leather jacket and the white shirt underneath was soaked through so you could trace the faint pink of his skin underneath.</p><p>"Do you want to change? I don't live here anymore, but I think I have some stuff left upstairs," I said.</p><p>"You don't live here anymore? Why haven't I heard this before? Where are you living?" he looked almost offended for not having been informed of every insignificant detail of my life.</p><p>"Just a few blocks away. Figured it was time I learnt to live on my own."</p><p>He frowned slightly at that. "Let's go to your place then. I want to see your fancy new apartment. But not before I say hello to my little prince <em>poustyshka</em>."</p><p>We walked over to my place after we'd been downstairs so Boris could say hi to Popchik and Hobie. (Rolling on the floor with ecstatic Popchik squealing in his arms, Hobie laughing like Father Christmas as he watched the spectacle.) Boris whistled approvingly as we walked through the small hallway to the spacious kitchen/living room.</p><p>"You have some nice stuff here," he said, gently kicking my (Hobie's version of) Queen Anne coffee table and leaving small droplets of rain everywhere in the apartment as he examined his surroundings.</p><p>"You're getting water everywhere! Just go stand in the bathroom, I'll get you something," I ordered and went to the bedroom to get clothes for him.</p><p>As he changed, I made us tea in the kitchen. He walked out the bathroom pulling my sweater over his head. There was a dark scar curved above his right hip bone I hadn't seen before.</p><p>"So, Potter, tell me everything that's happened to you," he said, as he started rummaging through my kitchen cabinets.</p><p>"Not much, really," I'd told my most interesting stories to him already through texts and calls, which wasn't even that much, "what are you looking for?"</p><p>"What do you think, Potter? I come to America, I eat marshmallow fluff."</p><p>"I haven't got marshmallow fluff, Boris, I'm an adult."</p><p>"Blah! Adult," he sneered, then glanced hopefully over his shoulder, "Peanut butter?"</p><p>"Top right.”</p><p>"Ah, perfect," he said, sitting down next to me and scooping peanut butter on his spoon. "You're almost finished with your furniture hunt, yah? So, tell me, have you cleansed your soul?" he chuckled.</p><p>I ignored his laughter and answered to the glint in his eye that told me it was a serious question, "It <em>is</em> easier to face Hobie now, so I guess that's good. And it has reduced some anxiety issues, although that's a whole different matter. And it has given me a lot of time to think."</p><p>"About?"</p><p>"You know...life and stuff," I shrugged, "why am I here and what it all means."</p><p>"Very light subjects you like to think," he laughed, "and so? What's your conclusion? Are you happy?"</p><p>I pondered over that question as I watched him blow on his tea and take a careful sip, knitting his brows.</p><p>"Hmm, you ask me that a lot, you know," I finally said.</p><p>"I want to know! And you never answer in full!" he protested.</p><p>"Are <em>you</em> happy?" I changed tactics.</p><p>He mused over that question as he took another spoonful of peanut butter and let the spoon hang from his mouth.</p><p>"Not really, but it's okay," he said at last, "now is very good, too, here."</p><p>"What does that mean?"</p><p>"Not everything has to mean something!" he laughed, "it's just here, now, with good tea and good peanut butter and good company, is good. Better than…you know."</p><p>"What?" I asked as he trailed off and focused on the jar in front of him again, poking it with the tip of the spoon.</p><p>"It's better than cold tea, no sugar, and empty cabinets. Better than the usual," he chortled, trying to play it off as a joke, "but it's okay, no one's fault but my one, who would put up with me anyway?" he laughed again.</p><p>Back in Vegas, I had known Boris hated loneliness. He had been alone most of his life, always the new kid, the stranger, the foreigner. Never in on the pop culture references, never picking up on body language or idioms, often not even understanding the language people around him spoke. Never staying long enough to find a place he could call home, a person he could call family. And I knew he hated it, even feared it. I could see it in the way he kept questioning me about random things someone at school had said, what did it mean, what did it refer to. I could see it in the way he looked at my dad and Xandra when they were being lovey-dovey by the kitchen counter, studying them like some anthropologist sent to the circumpolar to study Inuit, as if by understanding their behavior, he could crack the enigma of physical intimacy. I could definitely feel it in the way he pulled me into himself at night, his arm wrapped around my waist, sticking his cold ankles in between mine and resting his forehead on my back.</p><p>We had been so close back then, practically living together, that I got see these things, get to know his fears and hopes and habits, everything about him. But adult Boris, though I never once felt uncomfortable around him, was still somewhat a stranger to me. Even though he gladly shared his stories, in ridiculously long texts filled with incomprehensible emojis and Australian slang words, or four hour long phone calls in hotel rooms and airports that only ended with one of us dropping off, finally giving in to sleep, or in Antwerp where we'd spent better half of our days on his sofa, looking at the pictures on his phone, each accompanied by a crazy Boris story; I didn't live through them with him, like I used to. So much had happened that I didn't know about, so much of <em>him</em> that I didn't know about. He looked so put together and confident, it was unimaginable that he could still be haunted by the same fears that have crippled me from New York to Vegas and back. It was almost impossible that the fifteen year old boy, the boy I had know better than anyone, was still inside there.</p><p>But there he was. Looking back at me with the spoon absurdly hanging from his mouth, desperately trying to understand the world and people around him, searching for his place among them.</p><p>I will, I thought. I will make you tea, boiling hot with three sugars. I will buy you food and fill your kitchen cabinets. I will wait for you through the night so you'll have someone to come home to. I will keep the light burning and the radiators on and there will be an extra blanket in case the night is cold. Anything to finally get rid of that stupid, maddeningly stubborn loneliness that just won't leave you alone.</p><p>But, of course, I couldn’t say all that, so I just said, "I have some bread too if you want."</p><p> </p><p>After a few hours, Boris insisted on going out (<em>You’re not even 30 and you live like grandpa, Potter. Time to get some life in you</em>). Although I hadn't heard of any grandpas who'd been in a shootout in Amsterdam, I decided to drop it and just accept my fate. As soon as we entered the club, I recognized it as the one he took me to during our last night out in New York. The same deep red walls and sticky floor, makeshift Soviet style decorations hanging from the ceiling. The place was completely backed, hot breaths mingling in the air, people shouting in at least four different languages, psychedelic Russian trance blasting from the speakers. The smell of sweat and booze and something sharp and musky filling my lungs. Boris was guiding me through the crowd towards the bar with his hand on the small of my back. People I'd never seen before came forward to shake my hand, clap me on the shoulder <em>Fyodor!</em> and exchange a few quick words with Boris. Everyone seemed to know him and, therefore, me.</p><p>Theoretically, this kind of atmosphere is exactly what drives me to the edge of a panic attack, filling me with anxiety with its strangeness and sense of peril of so many people crashed together in a small space. Walls caving in. Loud unexpected noises. The ceiling sinking lower and lower. Suffocating all life. Space shrinking in on itself before inevitably blowing up like some absurd Slavic supernova. Strangely, I thought, drowning my vodka shot on Boris's familiar <em>Sto lat!</em>, I didn't feel any of it. It was like just by his mere presence, by keeping his elbow firmly linked to mine, he was anchoring me down to Earth, not letting me float away into space.</p><p>We spent hours joking and laughing at the bar over a bottle of vodka, our heads together, just like we had done as boys. Trying to convince myself that the only reason I was holding my hand on his shoulder, giggling in his ear, my face mere inches away from his, was because otherwise he wouldn't hear me over the music, even though he was the one doing most of the talking. I had been drinking considerably less than normal over the past few months, so it didn't take me long to start feeling disoriented and weirdly courageous, the mass of people around me blending into each other, becoming unidentifiable like droplets of water in an ocean, with only Boris standing out as a steady beacon of light. At one point in the night I found myself sitting at a table with a bunch of people around me, drinking and laughing and shouting in Russian. I was thoroughly blasted by then, hardly feeling any distress about Boris disappearing into the crowd, after he pushed me on a chair and, seemingly out of nowhere, placed a plate of pelmeni with thick sour cream and a bottle of beer in front of me. Myriam was sitting next to me telling the story of how she and Boris had met. I could hardly follow her, it seemed like the dense cigarette smoke around us was slowing down her words with some of them getting lost in the way. Suddenly, I felt the warm weight of someone's forearms leaning on my shoulders and the familiar smell of Boris filled my lungs. I turned my head to make sure and saw him grinning closer then I had expected.</p><p>"Having a good time, Potter?" he asked, his face so close to mine I could make out every single one of his eyelashes.</p><p>I nodded slowly and closed my eyes as he began talking to Myriam in Ukrainian. I was completely engulfed in him with his breath warm in my ear, listening to the strangely familiar words I had no way of understanding yet on some weird level did. Bone-chilling air conditioning. Dark blue shadows growing out of beer bottles, trashed books, heaps of dirty clothes. The tickling sensation of his curls on my neck. The silver light of the full moon coming through the blinds. I could stay like this forever, I thought.</p><p> </p><p>Around four in the morning we made our way back to the apartment. Neither of us felt tired enough to go to sleep yet, the excitement of being actually together again was too strong to wear off that easily, so we decided to settle in on the couch with a bottle of vodka. My face was burning, I felt giddy and fully awake after the cold of the night (much to the dismay of the driver, we had kept the cab windows down the whole ride, Boris fervently reciting Pushkin's <em>To the Sea</em> in Russian). His dark eyes were sparkling and he was nodding along emphatically as I was telling him about my break up with Kitsey. It had been quiet and reserved, no unnecessary emotions on either side and a promise to stay friends. A promise we had broken before even making it.</p><p>"The thing is," I was telling Boris, slightly waving the bottle in my hand, "we don't actually know each other. Neither of us felt comfortable enough around the other to truly open up. We were just putting up a play, hoping that if we pretended long enough, it would turn into something meaningful."</p><p>"So the asshole with the cigarettes got the snowflake," Boris sneered, "good for them, they make a good match. And you?"</p><p>"What about me?"</p><p>"What are you going to do? Are you going after the redhead? She would be a fool not to prefer you to the boring English nerd."</p><p>"No, she's smart enough to stay away," I sighed. I'd thought about Pippa a lot recently. That's not to say that I didn't think about her constantly before but now it was different. Before, I only thought about everything l loved about her. But after her letter, which I'd read almost to shreds, and the long, excruciating hours spent with Dr. Jacobs (the therapist I finally settled on after seeing 6 different people in three months, feeling more dismayed and isolated after each one, never getting beyond the first session), I started to think more about myself and Pippa, and what the things I loved about her meant to me.</p><p>"I think she was right in her letter," I'd given Boris a short summary of it before – "we're too much alike, too damaged to be together. We wouldn't be able to support one another."</p><p>"That doesn't mean you don't love her," he said, with a very un-Boris voice.</p><p>"I know but," here I started to trail off. Maybe it was the booze or the fact that it was Boris I was talking to or the therapy sessions finally showing their effect on me, but I started to let my mind wander to thoughts I'd steered clear off before, too scared to think about, "I've been thinking about all these things I love about her and I've realized none of the things have anything to do with me. I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing but I love all these qualities about her, just her, but not how she makes me feel, you know? In fact, I kind of hate how she makes me feel, this obsessed borderline stalker creep. She's incredibly nice and kind but she doesn't make me feel good about myself or the world, she doesn't make me want to be a better person or I don't know… it's not her fault at all, it's all on me, I just... I don't think love is supposed to feel like that. Does that make sense?"</p><p>I looked over at Boris who was eyeing me with an unfamiliar expression. I felt like I had disturbed him in some way though I couldn't understand how.</p><p>"What do you want then?" he asked.</p><p>"I don't know. Not to feel like shit, I guess," I hadn't been this open and honest in years and I felt I was nearing a wall. Break through it, and it all comes down, the pillars will crack and the ceiling will crumble. Everything will be out there and that means it would be out of my control. But Boris had slightly tilted his head, his eyes looked heavy but alert and, again, the ghost of his fifteen year old self had appeared before me. We'd been so close at that time. We'd shared secrets worse than this and he probably won't remember it in the morning anyways.</p><p>"I just – I just want to wake up in the morning and not think to myself, why? Why do I have to this again? Again and again I have to wake up and do this, this life. And honestly, who cares if one morning I just won't wake up? Nothing would change for anyone, not really. Yeah, I guess Hobie would be sad for awhile, and Mrs Barbour, but they have their own life. Maybe it's selfish to want someone to be affected by it, someone I could wake up next to and not feel like running away. God, I feel so stupid and honestly no one should carry the load of waking up next to me, but I'm just so tired of it."</p><p>I felt my carefully constructed fortress growing fragile and starting to crack but I couldn't stop myself. All the things I'd kept bottled up inside for over a decade just came flooding out, tearing through the walls. All the loneliness, and grief, and despair, and fear, and everything I'd never allowed myself to feel and the unfortunate Boris had to sit there and take it all.</p><p>But he did. He always had. He just sat there and he looked at me, slowly nodding along and keeping his warm hand on my arm, squeezing gently when I tripped over my words. I remember hearing Dave the Shrink describe me as reticent once in one of his whisperly discussion with Mrs Barbour. Fair enough, I'd thought, recalling his struggles of getting anything out of me that exceeded a syllable, but somehow with Boris, I had never restrained myself as I did with everyone else. It was the third time in my life I'd lost myself in an uncontrollable babbling state and for some reason Boris was always at the receiving end.</p><p>"and honestly, I can't see any future, nothing to live for. Not even in a suicidal sense like I can't take it anymore, I can, but what's the point? What's waiting for me? Nothing really. I can't remember the last time I had a genuine emotion, everything feels empty and fake, sometimes I think I feel things just because I'm supposed to, that's how people should react to this situation, so I do, but then later I realize, it wasn't me at all, it was all fake. I mean, what am I even moving towards, what's the goal, why am I here? I don't think it's worth it. I'm trying to do the right thing, to put things right, but I still feel like shit. Everything is just dull, my head hurts and I'm always so tired, just so fucking tired."</p><p>"Theo," he stopped me sharply. He took my face in his hands and kissed me on the mouth. Long and deep.</p><p>Unlike our kiss in Vegas, I had actually registered what happened before he pulled away. But he did pull away, keeping his head close to mine and opened his eyes. There was a light in them that I hadn't seen before. It was calling me closer and I couldn't break away, I didn't want to. But I didn't know what to think or do, so I just leaned in slightly, so that my lips barely brushed against his. Completely stunned. Something was telling me to hold on to this, I had to hold on to this. He took my movement as an invitation and kissed me again. This time it was deeper and hungrier, now he really kissed me. And I kissed him back. Again and again and again. Something was waking up inside me, my hands were moving at their own accord as they wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer. He was incredibly warm, almost burning. And so was I. But it felt right, it definitely felt really fucking good. So my hunger roared. I guess it was reflected in the way I kissed him because he leaned in even closer and started to undo my shirt buttons. His hand burned against my skin, I could feel the trace it left as it moved from my chest to the back of my neck. So did his mouth. He was already kissing my neck, soft, open mouth kisses, when something clicked in my head.</p><p>"Boris, wait," I said, my voice shaky and weaker than I would have liked it to be, "wait, I – "</p><p>He stopped and let out a warm puff of air in my ear before lifting his head.</p><p>"I don't think we should –," I started, "what are we doing?" I searched his face.</p><p>He took a deep breath to steady himself.</p><p>"Theo. It hurts me to see you like this," his voice was quiet but clear, "you talk about all these women who can't give you what you want, all these things you can't talk about, everything that you're missing, that you're looking for but can't find anywhere and I'm sitting right here. Right here. I can give you all of it. I know you, Theo. And I love you."</p><p>He sat up, straightened himself, and regarded me with an unreadable expression, eyes glistening, "and I think, once, you loved me too."</p><p>The silence between us was deafening, as we looked at each other as if meeting for the first time. Everything seemed to have collapsed, only the desolate ruins of our former selves were left, sitting at opposite corners of the sofa, a gorge between us.</p><p>Finally, he patted me on the shoulder and rose to leave.</p><p>"Say bye to Popchik for me, will you?"</p><p>With that, he left.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>What happens with Theo's drug addiction after the book in my mind is that he tries to go clean again with the help of his therapist and tells Hobie about his addictions as well because he's trying out the whole honesty thing now and telling Hobie seems like a good way to ensure he'd be less likely to relapse. I don't know how realistic this is (I mean he did go clean in the book for awhile before relapsing again but I don't know much about drugs) so if you have a better idea what happened then pretend that that's what happened instead. The main thing relevant for this fic is that he's been clean for almost a year and Hobie knows about it. </p>
<p>Anyways, enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was no way I could sleep that night. Sitting on the bed, I watched the light grow from husky black to deep indigo, cold blue to streams of gold and orange spilling over the floor and scorching the walls. Cursing myself for getting rid off all my stash after I decided to go clean almost a year ago, for good this time. It was the first time in months I was seriously tempted to try and buy something off the street. Anything. And only the haunting look on Hobie's face, when he had found out about my addictions keeping me from walking out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite having never said it out loud, not even to myself, I knew who I was. Pills, booze, the countless faceless women I had slept with hadn’t been enough to bury it. Beating myself up and cursing the world around me, obsessing over Pippa, imagining vivid comforting scenarios of killing myself hadn’t been enough to smother it. The guilt of being someone my mother wouldn’t know, the constant thrumming sense of shame at the back of my head, and the all-encompassing heavy weight of depression hadn’t been enough to kill that part in me that kept pushing to the surface no matter how many times I tried to drown it. After months of subtle but tireless questioning by Dr. Jacobs, accompanied with long sleepless nights and crushing flashbacks, the complex web of lies and deceit I had buried myself under had started to unravel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although it wasn’t Boris who made me into what I am, I had never stopped thinking about him. I had tried to suppress all of it after I came back to New York, convincing myself it was one time madness, I was just crazed with grief and loneliness, and besides, there was no way I would ever see Boris again so I should just forget about everything that had ever happened. But his shadow had lurked in my chest throughout the miserable, bleak, lonely ten years back in New York. And missing him had crushed me. I got through the days by burying it under work, women, drugs, anything. But at night, under the cold watchful light of the moon, it burned. At first, I had cried and howled into the pillow, praying that Hobie would be fast asleep. But over the years I had learned to prison it inside me. There it could create its havoc without disturbing anyone. It nestled in my gut, clutching my insides. Waking up, it stretched itself, threatening to pierce through my skin and pull apart my veins. Tearing out scraps of flesh, it clawed its way upwards from my chest to my head, growing enormous, cracking my skull. Lying there, the only sounds coming from outside my window and Popper at my feet, I let it carve at me, skin me bare.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now it was awake again. Rejoicing in the memory of his warm weight. Curling up in his taste that was boiling inside me. Chasing the lingering shadow of his lips on my neck. But I had stopped him. Why had I stopped him? It was ready to kill me for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, when the orange and gold had turned into bright yellow, I drifted off to a somber sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I dreamt of my mother that night, or rather her presence. I didn't see her, every time I tried to look over to where she sat, the bright light she radiated was too much for my eyes and I had to turn away. But I could feel her next to me, sitting on our old couch back in Sutton Place. The room we were in was bare and transfigured but the couch was exactly the same. Even though I didn't see it properly, I was too desperate to try and make out my mother's face, moving my hand over the armrest I knew its texture as if it was imprinted on my fingertips. She was telling me something from work, I can't remember what it was, something in the lines of needing to buy Mathilde a new pair of butterfly wings so she could fly to Paris fashion week. But I remember the feeling as sure as she had really been here. My heart beat slow and sure. My bones felt heavy and locked in place. Sweet eternal glow surrounded us, rendering the edges of the room sharp yet tender. The feeling of righteousness in sitting next to her with her warm arm pressing into mine. The blooming, internal harmony of the painting. A pair of dark eyes steadily keeping their gaze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I woke up to my alarm a few hours later and for a few moments, I lay in the blissful sensation of the dream, feeling it pulse through me. Then the memories of last night came flooding back and I had to clutch the sheets to steady myself. I felt nauseous. How could I have let this happen?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I staggered to work after a freezing shower and two aspirins on an empty stomach. Even though it had rained the day before, the air was still suffocatingly heavy and made me feel sick, I was sweating before I got out of the building.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before opening the shop, I went to the kitchen to make myself coffee and heard Hobie walk down the stairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good morning! Oh," he stopped at the kitchen door and laughed, "you look horrible." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I groaned in reply and sat at the table, holding the burning cup of coffee in my hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wild night with Boris?" he asked, placing a plate with a fresh pain au chocolat from the small French bakery down the street in front of me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Something like that," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. I knew he meant well, but even the sight of the bread made me feel like I might throw up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"This came for you in the morning, someone left it at the front door," Hobie said and handed me a light brown paper bag, diligently sealed, with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Theo Decker </span>
  </em>
  <span>written on the front in Boris's unmistakable handwriting. I stared at it. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>e </span>
  </em>
  <span>that looked more like an </span>
  <em>
    <span>i </span>
  </em>
  <span>without a dot. The crooked </span>
  <em>
    <span>k. </span>
  </em>
  <span>When the hell had he ever used my last name? And </span>
  <em>
    <span>Theo</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I felt like instead of casually handing me the bag while peacefully sipping on his coffee, Hobie had punched me in the stomach with it and was now judging me over his mug, cursing the day he had ever agreed to take me in. Even Popper seemed to be disgusted with me, eyeing me from Cosmos's old basket in the corner. You're a worthless piece of shit, written in his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bathroom," I murmured, getting up from the table and taking the bag with me. Locking myself in, I splashed cold water on my face and without bothering to dry myself, stared at the mirror. Is that what I looked like? I moved my head from side to side and watched my reflection do the same, revolted at how much in sync that idiot in the mirror was with my own movements.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, I gathered enough courage to open the bag and look inside. My clothes. Black cashmere sweater and pair of jeans, neatly folded. I took the clothes out and shook them frantically before shaking the bag and almost ripping it in half. But no note fell out and, except for my name, nothing was written on the bag. I let it fall to the floor and perched myself on the edge of the bathtub, gathering the clothes on my lap. Besides the faint smell of laundry detergent and cigarette smoke, the distinct smell of Boris was still left on the sweater. I hated how instictly I recognized it. How fast I picked it up and how it turned my stomach. It was disgusting how much I wanted to press the sweater to my face and inhale him. Pretend that he was still here. Still kissing my neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fuck," I muttered, before forcing myself to put the clothes back in the bag and get out of the bathroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you sure you're okay?" Hobie looked at me with his worrying eyes as I went back to the kitchen to finish my coffee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm fine, just hungover, you know how – " somehow I couldn't bring myself to say his name out loud. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hobie grew alarmed and leaned closer over the table, "you didn't take anything, did you? You know you can tell me, I'm not here to judge you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, of course not, no," I shook my head and tried to smile to reassure him, but he didn't look convinced, "we just drank, that's all." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay," he leaned back on his chair but wouldn't take his eyes from me. "You know you can tell me anything, right? That was the deal." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know," I couldn't handle the sincere worry in his eyes and, to avoid meeting his gaze, tore a small piece from the bread and put it in my mouth. Big mistake. I almost gagged. I took a gulp of coffee to hide my discomfort and got up again, "I should get to work." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I spent hours in the shop, lost in my thoughts. Absentmindedly running my hand over the furniture, the undistinguished set of riband-back chairs, Hobie's heavily restored Sheraton settee and our authentic Chippendale chest-on-chest. Moving Welty's old silver teapot from one end of the shop to the other, only to take it back a few minutes later. Spending almost an hour wiping the dust from the walnut cheval glass in the corner. I undercharged a New Jersey housewife for a paperweight and other knick-knacks and couldn't be bothered to convince the stressed-out married couple that Hepplewhite was an investment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What the hell was wrong with me? Part of me wanted to bury itself in Hobie's workshop for an eternity, breathe in the sawdust and chemicals, die among piles of veneer and mismatched table legs, hidden from the outside world. Some old part of me wanted to go to Pippa's old room and press my head in her pillow to convince myself that this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> is what I want and need. An uncomfortably painful part wanted to try and call any of my old drug friends, or maybe take a cab over to Seventh Avenue myself to see if I could find Jerome. And yet another crazed part entertained the thought that maybe I could call Kitsey, we'd start over, I bet she doesn't even like Tom that much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Over the years I had built so many versions of myself, I had lost count which was the real one. Somewhere along the way, between the drugged out, sleepless bus ride back to New York, the subsequent illness, and my manic need to appear as normal as possible so as not to get sent to a foster home, I had created a mantra out of the advice given to me by my fairy godmother taxi driver back in Vegas.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That's the first law of magic, Specs. Misdirection. Never forget it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And I hadn't. Only I'd taken it too far and fooled myself more than anyone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But I hadn't fooled him. I didn't think I could if I tried, he knew me too well. That's why he had kissed me. That's why he had said what he did. But I had pushed him away. I had stopped him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stopped scrubbing the glass and took a shaky breath. The light outside was fading, it must have been past five already, but I couldn't get my legs to move to close up the shop. I watched the street lamps turn on, orange glints reflecting back from the puddles that had failed to dry up during the day. Delicate white flowers already appearing among the fresh green leaves of the linden trees lining the street. The air stood motionless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The most genuine, sincere part of me wanted to see him, right now. Talk to him. Tell him everything. Ask for his forgiveness. I remembered his eyes just before he kissed me. Determined. And their open, pleading look afterwards. Thinking about him brought back the vague echo of the dream I'd had. I had seen those eyes, I had felt that righteousness only last night. Then why had I pushed him away? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before I could change my mind, I grabbed my phone from the desk and texted him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Could we meet up? Please. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is more of a prelude to chapter 3 which will be out shortly! It's all ready just needs editing. </p>
<p>I hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you thought! If you wanna scream at me, I'm also on <a href="https://balalaikapattycake.tumblr.com/">Tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>The next day was a torture, waiting for his response and then waiting for the evening. Worse than any of the client meetings or Christie's auctions I'd been to after my detox, painfully sober. Long tedious hours, dragging on with no end, watching the sun move over the horizon and listening to grass grow. I waited for the hour as much as I feared it, keeping Pärt's </span><em><span>Spiegel</span></em> <em><span>im Spiegel </span></em><span>on repeat, thinking it would calm me down but it was only winding me up even more. I could have gone out, to the shop, for a walk, go see Popchik, but every time I grabbed my coat and made my way to the front door, my legs carried me back to the couch, and I flopped down on the same spot as before. Flicking through the channels, sound off, and tapping my finger on the coffee table, I tried to stop myself from thinking about him, and the various scenarios of how the night would turn out to be. Ranging from him eyeing me with suspicion </span><em><span>What are you talking about, Potter? You sure you weren't dreaming? </span></em><span>to him straight up laughing in my face, flicking my glasses </span><em><span>Is a joke, Potter! Can't believe you took it seriously!</span></em><span> to a crew of cameramen running towards us after my embarrassing confession </span><em><span>Ya just got punk'd!! </span></em><span>teenage girls snickering and pointing fingers, the cameras pressed into my face, Boris keeling over with laughter. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>At last, the clock struck and I could stop simmering in my own anxiety and run headfirst into the catastrophe that was waiting for me. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We had agreed to meet in front of bar in a quieter part of Lower East Side that had somehow stuck with me when I passed it once. It was already past nine and the streets were growing calmer, yet I felt mildly claustrophobic like walking through a subway during rush hour, flinching every time someone bumped into me. I stopped at the corner next to a flower shop to steady myself. White and orange street lights filling the droplets of water vapor dripping down the shop window. Ghostly orchids stretching their necks along the pane. I fidgeted with my jacket sleeves, picking non-existent dust particles from the fabric and checked my watch. Ten minutes to go. I took a deep breath and decided it would be better to wait by the bar, so I could see him first and have an upper hand. But when I turned the corner, he was already there, leaning against the shabby door frame, smoking a cigarette and staring at the traffic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ah, Potter," he shouted, before I had time to figure out how to face him, and stubbed out the cigarette with his shoe. "Am quite busy tonight, you have to make it quick." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right, well –," I mumbled and stopped, feeling my courage slide off me and sprint down the street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at me, raised eyebrows, but I had forgotten everything I had decided to say. The silence was excruciating. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right," he said, as if he made up his mind and turned to walk away just as my brain was catching up on itself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No wait!" I grabbed his shoulder and immediately let go. "Can we at least get a drink?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I expected him to argue or laugh in my face, but instead he shrugged and made his way into the bar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The place was nothing like I had imagined it to be. From the outside it looked like one of those artsy bars where young girls from the Midwest would sing meekly, accompanying themselves on an acoustic guitar, and middle-aged baristas with turtlenecks recited poetry. Instead, it was this obscure cacophony of light and dark, like something out of a dream. Modern interior with black and white walls and glossy surfaces, illumined by the flashing lights. There was a girl singing on the stage at the back, but she looked more like someone from California or Southeast Asia, with her tanned skin and loose black dress, and the music was anything but the mellow acoustic guitar solo I had been expecting. Thunderous and aggressive. Yet the singer's voice was so hauntingly ardent, it filled the spacious room with a sense of heartbreak and wilderness, like cold wind blowing through an abandoned wreck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bar was sparsely filled with most people concentrated around the stage, but the overall atmosphere of the place struck me as way too intense to stay. I stopped at the door, wanting to turn back and find a calmer place where we could talk, but Boris had already made his way towards the bar, signaling the bartender for drinks. I followed him there and after getting our vodka tonics, we settled down in one of the booths lining the wall opposite the stage, hidden from the crowd. The air was thick and sultry with electric blue light reflecting off the white walls, painting Boris's features in sharp contrasts of blue and black. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We sipped our drinks quietly, avoiding eye contact and not knowing what to say. The music had switched to something slow and sentimental. Empty schoolrooms and wild desert twilights. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm leaving New York tonight," he broke the silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shit, what? I looked at him, shocked, but he kept staring at his half empty glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No," was all I managed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why not?" he turned to face me, his expression almost angry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You can't go, not now." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why would I stay, Potter, mh? Tell me. I'm not going to wait –," he stopped abruptly and turned his head away, "Fuck." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's just –," I started, keeping my eyes on the drink in front of me, "it's been so long, Boris. I didn't know what to do and I – " My voice came out feeble, fading into the walls. "What happened that night, it wasn't – I don't know what to do with that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything came out wrong, this wasn't what I wanted to say. After years of avoiding the obvious, it was ridiculous how hard it was to say the thing that had been running berserk in my head all this time. I turned to him, hoping he would understand me if he'd just look at me, but he kept his head down, fidgeting with the ring on his little finger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mh, I see," he smiled faintly, and turned his head away to look at the stage. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What I'm trying to say is, it's been a long time and things have changed – it's not like I –," I stopped again, tongue-tied. Things have changed in my life which make it almost impossible for me to be honest. It's not like I had forgotten, had ever stopped thinking about you. Is what I would have said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right. I guess it was easier when we were just kids and could pretend it never happened," Boris laughed, leaning his head against the wall and looked up. His laughter died out shortly after but he didn't avert his eyes from the ceiling. He wouldn't look at me. I could see his throat move as he swallowed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't want to pretend anymore," I said quietly, not taking my eyes from him. "And I don't want to forget anymore and I don't want to hide and I don't want to lie. Not to you." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at me now. There was that sublime light in his eyes again. Unworldly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I should have said it a long time ago." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Said what?" he asked, even though he knew well enough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I love you. I never stopped loving you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We sat there, eye to eye, heart to heart. Telling each other everything without our mouths moving. Every time we thought it but hadn't said anything. The flick of his curls in English, as he turned back to his book. His discarded t-shirt crumbled up on the floor in our barren Vegas bedroom. Boney knees and skinny chest, distorted figures underwater. His voice stopping me dead on the street. The smooth wave of his dark coat against the dying leaves in the park as he turned to walk away. His hand on the car seat between us. His voice in my ear, thousands of miles away. I love you. I love you I love you I love you I love you. Don't look at me or you'll see. Praying to the unknown. Please don't look. Please don't see me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing him now, he had thought the same. Every averted gaze. Every unfinished sentence. Every punch and kick and slap. Saying something we couldn't bare to bring to daylight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a second or a lifetime, his hand was on the back of my neck, pulling me in, my lips on his, knees bumped together. Discarded glass shattered on the floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a foggy night that I remember with absolute clearness. We could hardly take our hands from each other to get out of the bar and into a cab, desperate to make up for lost time. I couldn't take my eyes off him. His bright smile, eyes sparkling in the dark interior of the car as the street lights passed by behind him, casting timeless shadows over our backseat, like rewinding an old tape and seeing everything I thought I had known in a completely new light. Shaking his head and biting his lower lip, trying and failing to suppress his smile. Our hands linked together in the small space between us, he was running his thumb over my knuckles again and again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back in the apartment he pressed me against the wall before the door had fallen shut. Leather jacket thrown over the kitchen chair, glasses somewhere on the living room floor, door kicked close, tangled sheets, his hair in my fist, hot breath on my neck. The full moon shining through the grey storm clouds hurrying across the sky as we sank deeper and deeper into the night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Afterwards, as he was sleeping, I watched the moonlight glide over his back, illuminating the small scars and numerous tattoos I was now in the liberty to get to know intimately. Suddenly I was thrown back to a night in Vegas, almost a year after meeting Boris. We'd already shared many of our usual blackout drunk nights, but this one had been surprisingly quiet, just some beers after school and few shots during </span>
  <em>
    <span>Donnie Darko</span>
  </em>
  <span> after which we just headed straight to bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After an hour or so of light sleep, I abruptly woke up, head thick and feeling disoriented. I tried to fall back asleep by counting to myself in Spanish but it didn't work. So I turned around and found myself facing Boris, sleeping soundly only inches away from me. He looked calm in sleep, almost serene. Expression open and innocent. The full moon shining in through the window behind him lighted up his dark hair and created a slight halo around his head. His face was pale white, except for the small scratches and scars and a fresh bloody bruise under his eye, courtesy of Mr Pavlikovsky from the night before, that stood out in stark contrast against his skin. Something about that reminded me of what my mother had told me about the Old Masters and their expertise in painting life at its prime, just before all that richness passed its expiry date and started to rot away. His face looked a little like that. Like the bruises and scratches were slight signs of decay in the other way perfect peak of existence. I felt hollow. I couldn't bare to imagine Boris ever rotting away in a ground somewhere, his dead body decaying all alone in the darkness. Although I knew better than most people that death was inevitable, even closer than most of us wanted to admit, the thought of Boris being even capable of dying filled me with dread. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He always seemed the stronger of the two of us, always one step ahead. After everything he'd been through, I couldn't fathom how normal rules of existence could apply to him. As I waited, even longed for the exhilarating relief of death and reuniting with my mother again, he took death, destruction and decay by the horns and tossed them into the blazing flames of life. Life for Boris was full of endless possibilities, everything was a door to a new experience if you just had the courage to open it. Nothing could bring him down, and even if it did, he would find a new existence in the blacks of soil. He was living in his own world with his own rules, a world he was waiting for me to join. And I wanted to. I wanted to turn my back to the world that had dealt me all this misery and suffering, and join him on the edge. Outside of everything and everyone else. Just the two of us, laughing at the face of death and having the time of our lives. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But I wasn't like Boris, however much I wanted to be. I was drained and exhausted, no energy left to stand up and walk away. I was just so tired. Tired of feeling and thinking, trying to make sense of the world and why it was so cruel. In those moments the thoughts of my own grief and suffering seemed insignificant compared to the sorrow I felt for my mother. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve any of it. I should have been the one to die that day not her. What did I have to give to the world? Who needed my presence for consolation? What joy or happiness could I bring? But she had so much. Like Boris, she was alive in every sense of the word. She breathed life. She was what the world needed to balance up the good from the bad, not me. I had no weight in the matter. I didn't think I had anything good left in me. Nothing especially bad either, just empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, after I'd met Boris, something started to grow in my chest. It seemed like a small bubble of resistance, a refusal to pull away. Boris was offering me the possibility of defiance. Another life, different rules. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As I lay in our dark room with the sand beating against the windows, I looked over his features again, trying to understand what was it about him that had the power to penetrate my mist of grief and attempt to haul me out. As I let my eyes wander from his black curls to the tip of his nose, pick out the freckles on his cheeks and move down to his chapped lips, I could feel that bubble of defiance move in my chest. It was a different sensation that what I'd had before, there was something new about it. Defiance didn't seem quite the word anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I love him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, my heart whispered. The thought hit me so suddenly, I didn't know how to respond at first. So I just lay there, completely dumbstruck. Hum of the air conditioning. Boris's slow, steady breaths. Popchik sniffling quietly at our feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I tried to reason with myself. Love? No, that couldn't be it. What love? I can't even feel simple joy from a good meal or a sunny day, what love are you talking about? Not only that, but Boris? Love Boris? What the fuck was wrong with me? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I knew I cared about him but like a friend would. And we got along really well, and I wanted him to be well and his bruises hurt to see, but love? Loving someone? An actual human being? I didn't think myself capable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there I was. And I realized I didn't want to fight anymore. Not that night at least. I was too tired. So I lay there and for once, I let myself have that moment. Under the cover of darkness, with Boris sleeping next to me and the quiet of the desert wrapped around us, I let myself admit that I love him. Not trying to figure out what it said about me or where it might take us, but just that. And that night, after a long time, I felt some sense of peace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although many of my Vegas memories are foggy, partly because of the substances but also due to my overloaded brain repressing the confusing and sad parts, that memory has stayed clear with me throughout the years. It was something I often thought about, blackout drunk and lonely, laying in my bed in Welty's room, or sitting in the corner of strange apartments, surrounded by people I'd never met, getting high on whatever shit they had. It was also the thought that hit me when I OD'd in Hobie's bathroom. I'm not sure if that memory helped the cause or hindered it, but laying on that cold bathroom floor, staring at the cream tiles where the tiny crack bent at a weird angle, just before everything kicked in, I thought back to that night and a different sort of grief hit me. A life I could have had. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I have it now, I thought, looking at Boris soundly sleeping next to me. He had a tendency of sleeping on his stomach, as he did now, slightly clutching the pillow. It was weird to think this was normal now. Sleeping next to Boris. For me of all people. What had I, in my shitty, fake, fucked up life done to earn such a privilege? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I reached my hand out to touch his arm, to make sure I wasn't dreaming all of this. It felt real all right. I inched closer to hear his breath better. That seemed real as well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hmm, you're not sleeping," Boris murmured drowsily. He'd always had a weird sixth sense telling him to wake up when my movements weren't the ones of a sleeping person. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opened his eyes and read my face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Tell me," he whispered, having found something worrying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There's nothing to say." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know I'd stay if you'd want me to," he said, after a quiet pause, "do you want me to?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes," I answered, breathless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled softly and pulled me closer, resting his forehead on mine. I felt years worth of tension leave my body in a second. We could do it again. Create our own world, our own refuge. And start over. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry about the rant at the end, it's just that's where the fic got started so I didn't have the heart to cut it out.</p>
<p>Anyways, now that they're happily sleeping together again, it's a good time to explain what this fic is about. This will basically be about the first months/year? of their relationship, trying to sort through the various problems they have and possibly encountering new ones. I'll try to keep it as close to the characters as I can but obvs it won't be as repressed and sad as the book. Thanks for reading so far and hopefully you'll stick around :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A huge thank you to everyone who has left kudos or comments so far!! It really encourages me to publish the stuff I have and write more. Love you all! Hope you enjoy this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>

  <em>
    <span>I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>- Franz Kafka "The Castle"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Potter, wakey-wakey." I opened my eyes to find Boris sitting at the edge of the bed fully dressed, poking me in the shoulder. He tilted his head to see if I was awake, faint light of dawn filling the room behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What time is it?" I mumbled sleepily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Around six," he whispered, resting his elbow on my hip and lounging atop of me. "I have to go now, got a business thing, but we'll have dinner, yah?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked over me hesitantly. Was he thinking I'd changed my mind? Nearing a panic attack and regretting everything? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, sure. I should finish around five." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Great, I'll pick you up," he tugged my ear gently and left. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I fell asleep again and woke up a few hours later to go to work. Our early morning dialogue had seemed like a dream, part of the unreality of last night. Now, in broad daylight, mechanically following my normal morning routine, I was determined to keep the memories of last night locked and hidden in that part of my brain filled with blurry nights in front of weak TV light and under blazing desert stars. But the apartment was full of hints of last night, appearing unexpectedly from the corner of my eye and knocking my breath out. My still half full mug of cold tea, sitting on the coffee table where I'd left it before going to the bar. Picture of my mother and Paintbox, her old horse back in Kansas, lying on the floor, glass cracked. The couch standing at a weird angle. I stopped at the damp towel in the bathroom, that he had apparently used before leaving, and smiled despite myself. Maybe it was the nostalgia of Vegas, a sign of our lives overlapping again, or just a proof of his presence, that he'd been here, in my home, in my bed, with me. As did the misplaced shaving cream and aftershave, the still dripping shower head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was weird, I thought, standing in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth. Part of me couldn't stop smiling, antsy to see him again, not even trying to stop myself from thinking about everything we'd said and done the night before. How it had felt. If I didn't know myself any better, I'd say that part was almost happy. Yet I dreaded going outside, facing anyone that wasn't him, replying to emails and selling furniture, like nothing had happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I caught my reflection absentmindedly staring at me and suddenly got the urge to punch myself. Messy hair, dark circles under my eyes, a bite mark on my collarbone, faint pink and purple bruises on my neck and one just at the edge of my jawline. Shit. I should do something about that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The shower was scalding hot but I stood there for over half an hour. I knew it would be different but somehow I was still surprised at how much better I had felt during and after. None of the usual sense of dread and loneliness I'd had, watching Kitsey or Carol or Julia or any of the other women I'd been with soundly sleeping next to me. Whatever Boris had ever said or done, even when we had fought, loneliness was not something I had ever felt being around him. Maybe I was expecting it to bother me, and the fact that it didn't was what bothered me the most? When he was next to me, there was no room for doubt or regret, nothing except him. And everything was right with him. Now that he had left, though, I could feel things starting to grow fragile and unstable. I should really do something about those bruises. What the hell was he thinking? What if Hobie sees them? He knew Boris was in town, it wouldn't be too difficult for him to connect the dots. Fuck. I should have warned him, stopped him, anything. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opted for a turtleneck to cover the ones on my neck but it was growing late, I had to get to work and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what to do about the one on my jawline. I tried to reason with myself, it's okay, it's too light for anyone to notice. Besides, it's at such an angle they would need to be standing directly next to me and looking up at my jaw to see it. Everything is as it's supposed to be. You're okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After twisting my neck for twenty minutes and using a pocket mirror to check the back, I was barely calm enough to get my stuff and go to the shop. But just as I had managed to restore my heart rate, I got a text from Boris that sent it soaring worse than before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Just noticed a new Polish place!! We'll go there 2nite! Love u! </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The streets were still wet with last night's rain, dark gray smudges scattered on the concrete. A car appeared suddenly around the corner almost knocking me over. People pushing past me in the morning rush hour, arguing over their phones and irritably sipping on their take away coffees, faces sullen. I stumbled slightly and almost got run over by a bike as blinding sunlight pierced through the clouds and hit me unexpectedly in the eye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I got to the shop and started getting ready for the day, patting down my pockets from old habit, when Hobie walked in from the parlor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There you are! You didn't come in yesterday so I got a bit worried. Did you get my message?" he asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, shit," it slipped out before I could stop myself. I'd been so wrapped up with everything that happened with Boris, I hadn't even realized it had been a weekday. Now that he mentioned, I had seen a message from Hobie but forgotten it as soon as I took my eyes off it, completely immersed in what to say to Boris. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm so sorry, it's been a crazy few days," I said, feeling like shit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No no, don't worry about it, I was just a bit worried something had happened," he smiled his best Hobie smile, "but I figured you're probably up to something with Boris." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What? How did he — ? Was it so obvious? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stared at him shocked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know I've missed my fair share of days to being too hungover to move," he chuckled, seeing my expression. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right, yes, sorry," I said, feeling like I dodged a bullet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Where is Boris anyway? Did he leave already?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, he'll stay for a few more days at least." I realized I had no idea how long he was going to stay – "We're actually going to dinner tonight, he'll come by after work if you'd like to see him?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course, I'd love to! Do you boys have a specific place you wanted to go to, or maybe we could have dinner together, here?" he asked, eyeing me over his half-moon glasses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He wanted to go to some new Polish place, but I don't think he's that keen on it, I'll ask him." The prospect of having dinner with Boris and Hobie so soon after last night terrified me witless, but I felt so bad about not even calling him back yesterday, I didn't want to add the guilt of rejecting his well-intentioned dinner invitation to it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Great! Oh, before I forget, some mail came for you this morning, I think one of them is about the Newport crest rail from last week? I left them on your desk. And if you get some time today, I could use your hand on the Hepplewhite dining table," he said before getting ready to head to the workshop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course, yes, I'll come as soon as I can." </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I managed to get down there a few hours later, thinking I'd just stay until noon, but as usual, the hours gently wafted by, like slipping your hand through tall summer grass. Drowsy tick of the tall-case clocks mixed with the classical program on WNYC quietly playing on the background. Bach's </span>
  <em>
    <span>Goldberg Variations</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Puccini's</span>
  <em>
    <span> Babbino Caro</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Weak light and warm golden glow of mahogany. Old comforting smells of turpentine, oil paint and varnish. Wood shavings on the floor, dark brown walls and the all-embracing mild atmosphere radiating from Hobie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raucous banging on the shop door upstairs jolted me out from the dreamy and peaceful backwater of Hobie's workshop back to the modern day bustle of New York. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll get it," I said quickly as Hobie raised his head from the cherry-wood veneer he had been examining. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris was holding his hand up as a shade to see through the window into the shop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opened the door for him. "Hi," I said awkwardly, not knowing where to look. Boris didn't seem at all troubled by it and nudged his way past me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why you closed? Is not five yet?" he looked at me quizzically. Everything about him, from his wild curls to the dark leather jacket, the small birthmark on his jaw to the way he glanced over his shoulder as he walked through the shop, drove me crazy. How could he be so casual about it? I felt like screaming and throwing stuff and tackling him and, and—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What? Stop looking at me like that! Are you sick?" he asked with a slight frown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing, I'm fine," I said, quickly walking past him and sitting down to my desk, looking for something to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you sure you want to go to that Polish place tonight? Hobie asked us for dinner." I refreshed my inbox well aware that there would be nothing there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Meeting your parents? Already? You sure?" he rested his elbows on the desk, grinning at me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not like that," I hissed, "and mind you, he doesn't know, so shut the fuck up."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Am just joking, didn't expect you to tell anyone," he laughed at my reaction. "But yes, I'd love to have dinner with your poofter." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right," I felt embarrassed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaned closer, crooked his neck and stared at me like he was looking for something. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" I asked puzzled. Was there a stain on my collar? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ha!" he flicked his finger on the bruise on my jawline and smiled triumphantly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I could feel my face turning bright red. "Fuck off," I pushed his hand away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Have you?" I asked, after he had stopped giggling, being awfully aware of my hands all of a sudden. "Told anyone, I mean?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course! Told Myriam first thing, she's very happy for us," he looked almost proud saying that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You what?" I stared at him horrified. I wasn't even ready to admit it to myself, let alone have someone else know about it. I could feel panic rising up inside me, that shop had always been way too crammed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is okay, she already knew what I felt. I had to tell her, she's been rooting for us for years," (Years?) "is not fair not to," he grabbed my hands and there was genuine worry in his eyes, "you're not mad, are you? She won't tell anyone, I know!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was all moving way too fast. What the fuck was going on even, why was Boris holding my hands like that? And Hobie could walk in any minute, what would he think? Not to mention we weren't seated that far from the shop windows that were facing the street, anyone could walk in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But somehow I was powerless to pull my hands away or even say anything, so I just sat there dumbly, conducting a mental inventory of the shop. That Rococo mirror would stand out a lot better on the other side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What is it? Tell me," he asked, drawing me back to the caricatural moment we were paused in. Him, leaning over the desk, grabbing on to my hands; me, looking absentmindedly around the shop. I finally turned to him and found the familiar merry black eyes looking back at me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Aren't you, I don't know, freaked out?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why are you freaked out? You're regretting?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No no! Not that, not you," I could see the relief running down his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What is it then? You didn't like it? It was bad?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, of course not, not that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He squeezed my hands, "See then? No need to worry, anything that's that good can't be wrong." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, but it's just.. It's just a lot? I mean, it's fine when it's just us but what do we do now? What do we say? How do we –? I don't know," I finished lamely, staring back down at our hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hummed as if thinking this over in his head and started playing with my fingers. "Maybe don't think so much about the future. We'll do it one day at a time. Or if day is too long, we'll do it one hour or one minute at a time."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stared at the heavy gold ring on his little finger, it looked like something out of a Martin Scorsese movie. Off the grid. Life on the edge. One day at a time. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I looked back up at him and shifted in my chair. "And you? Was it…good?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled and winked, "Best I've ever had." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My whole chest felt like it was on fire. Luckily I could hear Hobie coming up from the workshop so I stood up and led the way to the kitchen, instead of figuring out what to say to that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Boris! Good to see you again!" Hobie walked in, pulling his work apron over his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mr Hobie, how are you?" Boris sprung up from the kitchen table where he had seated himself to warmly shake Hobie's hand and flash his most charming smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Very well, thank you for asking, but please, call me Hobie, Mr Hobie is my father," he laughed. "Well, boys, what would you like for dinner?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I spent most of the evening looming around the kitchen counter doing the easier tasks, peeling potatoes and measuring flour, while Hobie did the better half of the cooking for his version of potato gratin. Boris carried the conversation while he half peeled a potato with me, left it at the counter to scoop up Popchik, who had tottered into the kitchen, went to the fridge to give him some leftover meatballs, find the right seasonings for Hobie from the overfilling kitchen cabinet, stir some vegetables on the pan all the while still holding the dog in his arms and never returning to finish peeling that one potato. Listening to them talk, however, eased all the apprehension I had been feeling about the night. They got along splendidly with no awkwardness on either side. Boris was clearly happy to have found someone to discuss Eastern European history with, and more than anything, the person was also cooking real food for him. Moving between the stove, fridge and kitchen table with his confident stride, fluffy Popchik contently lazing in his arms, he looked like he had lived there for years. And Hobie seemed equally pleased with the conversation, encouraging Boris with his questions, offering his own thoughts, exclaiming and laughing at the right times. Clearly he was charmed with Boris' easy way of making even the dullest, driest topics burst with color. His enthusiastic gestures to emphasize his arguments, with Popchik almost flying from his arms at one point, his striking idioms that had gotten so mixed in his myriad of languages that made no sense but yet somehow you knew exactly what he meant. The dance of his dark curls as he was nodding along earnestly when Hobie had brought out a particularly strong argument for the inherent downfall of colonial regimes, the way he sneaked in tiny kisses on Popchik's neck between his thoughts, the play of his eyebrows as he changed from passionate claims to sudden exclamations to fervent assertions to bright exuberant bursts of laughter filling the kitchen, the hallway and, I imagine, at least half of New York. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After an hour or so of this show, all four of us sat down for the potato gratin, that looked more like a lasagna with potatoes instead of pasta but, nevertheless, tasted heavenly. Boris was not shy to shower Hobie with compliments on his cooking, claiming more than once that this was what all potato gratins should strive for. We finished the night with a cherry tart and a glass of brandy on Hobie's insistence. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As we got out on the street, Hobie and Popchik waving us off in the parlor, front door closed behind us, I realised I had no idea what we were supposed to do now. In my perplexity I looked over to Boris catching his eye, both of us wearing the same unmistakable expression of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now what? </span>
  </em>
  <span>and we burst out laughing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You wanna go out or stay in tonight?" Boris asked, suppressing his laughter and taking a few steps backwards, hands in pockets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm pretty beat, let's get back to my place," I answered, trying to sound as casual as he looked and started walking with him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay," he said, turning around with a slight flick of his head, smiling playfully. "How was business today? How many rich people did you rip off?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"None actually," I laughed, "I was helping Hobie with this dining table the whole day, so it was pretty uneventful." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What table? What did you do?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just this table we got from an estate sale. It's a genuine Hepplewhite actually but badly damaged, the idiot son was keeping it in this old pool house upstate after the old lady died, we had to replace one leg entirely, it was horrendous. But luckily we got these really cool – Well, never mind, the point is we replaced it," I finished quickly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Got what? How did you replace it?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I mean, it's not that interesting, it's just this specific wood thing." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What wood thing? Tell me, I wanna know," he said, looking genuinely interested with no trace of irony in his voice. Encouraged by Boris's questions, I ended up in a lengthy explanation of the pore and luster of different woods, the importance of getting exactly the right grain in restorations, and the various techniques used to alter the variations in tone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I see," he nodded seriously, "It's like art, isn't it? You know, I never understood why antiques are so expensive, is just old wood, but it takes a lot of work. And I mean, I get it's interesting to fix these things, like a hobby, you know, but why pay so much money for it? You can get a perfectly good table from IKEA." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You can say that about anything. If all you're looking for is practical value, then sure, go to IKEA. But antiques are so much more than just furniture. They have character, history, they're alive. They have depth that you could never get from a modern piece. It doesn't even have to be from a distinguished maker, if it's made with care and looked after for decades or even centuries, it has more value than all the IKEA stuff put together. It's timeless."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hmm, I guess it's like people," he said, holding the building's front door open for me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you mean?" I asked, as we walked through the lobby to the elevator. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Most people are like IKEA furniture, useful and nice, nothing wrong with them but nothing special either. You can find the same ones everywhere. But others," he leaned against the elevator wall and regarded me seriously, "are like your antiques. Shaped by their experiences, sometimes even hurt and damaged by them, need to take good care to keep them alive. But one of a kind. Could walk through whole world and not find the same one. Not even similar. So you do your best to love the one you have."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I smiled faintly, trying to process what he'd said. Luckily, the elevator reached our floor so I turned away, fumbling with the apartment keys. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We got inside and I grabbed some beers for us from the fridge, before sitting on the kitchen counter next to Boris. He rolled up his shirt sleeves before taking his beer from me, bumping his foot against mine as a thank you. Shoulders pressed together, we sat on the counter in silence, sipping on our drinks. It was growing dark but the street lights hadn't turned on yet, so the room was flushed over with cold blue light, walls painted with shadows. Boris's steady breaths next to me, tapping his finger on the bottle, absentmindedly kicking the kitchen cabinet with his heels. After having everything in my life turn upside down, it was strange how at peace I felt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a while, Boris drowned his bottle and hopped off the counter, "I'm finished." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well I'm not," my bottle was still half full and my whole side felt cold without him. I motioned with my head for him to sit back on the counter but instead he stood in front of, resting his hands on my knees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well drink up, quickly. Is been a long day. Didn't you miss me?" he eyed me from underneath his curls that had fallen to his face, smiling his dirty charming smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shut up," I kicked him gently and quickly took a big sip of my beer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckled and took the bottle from my hand, placing it on the counter next to me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"C'mon, I had to leave too early this morning," he grabbed my hands and pulled me off the counter. Still keeping my hands in his, he placed them on his back, pulling us together. The smell of cigarettes and my aftershave on his neck, underlain with the distinct sharp yet warm smell of Boris. Taste of beer still in his mouth. I swear I could almost hear the sand beat against the windows and the patio door snap downstairs. His warmth radiated into me, wrapping itself around us. Slowly we made our way to the bedroom, street lights turning on just as the door clicked shut. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>_______________</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I should probably tell you, I still have to leave New York soon," Boris said, rolling to his back and trying to catch his breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turned to my side to face him and frowned, "How soon is soon?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I have to be in Warsaw by day after tomorrow, so will leave tomorrow probably." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hummed in response and reached over him to grab a cigarette from the packet on the nightstand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You kept it," Boris said softly, reaching for the lighter I was just about to return to the drawer. It was his dad's, the one he had sneaked into my school backpack after I had admired it in passing. He twirled it gently in his hand, running his finger over the tarnished engravings and catching a streak of the street light outside in its golden reflection. I stroked my hand across his warm chest as a response and rolled back to my side of the bed to lie on my stomach, propped up on my elbows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought you meant it," I said quietly, letting out a cloud of smoke and focusing on the trail it left as it listlessly rose towards the ceiling, trying to ignore the rising tumult in my chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Eh?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What you said last night. I thought you meant it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"About staying, you mean?" he placed the lighter on the nightstand and rolled to his side to face me, "I did mean it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And I will, at some point," Boris scooched closer to rest his chin on my shoulder and flung his arm over my back, "but I have business, you know that, and this was all very sudden, didn't expect you to come around so fast." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I glared at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know what I mean," pressing a soft kiss on my shoulder – "so I have some stuff to take care of but I'll try to be back as soon as I can, promise. Try not to get engaged to someone this time," he laughed, looking pleased with himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I scoffed, "I'm not the one with a wife." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Astrid and I have an arrangement, okay, nothing for you to worry about. She needed protection, I owed some people a favor, ship-shap, we get married, everybody happy! Besides, she is also seeing someone else, Stojan, from Macedonia, I think. Very nice guy. You should meet him, builds beautiful cabinets. Like Mr Hobie, nie?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And what about the girlfriends you have in basically every city in Europe?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why you ask? You jealous, Potter?" he nudged my foot under the blanket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fuck off," I blew a whiff of smoke in his grinning face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't worry," he laughed, "you know you're different." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No really, why won't you believe me?" he pinched my side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pulled another deep drag and exhaled slowly before answering. "To be honest, from what you've told me so far, it seems a lot like I'm one of your free-place-to-stay plus benefits arrangements." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What! Of course not! Blah!" he said disdainfully. "I don't need your apartment anyways, I have girlfriend in New York!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This only confirmed my suspicions. I could feel myself being dragged into Boris's complex international web of sexual relations like I was suddenly part of some weird mafia, where at any point Stojan from Macedonia could knock on my door and ask me to hide a dead body for him and I had no way of refusing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I need a shower," I said, stabbing out the cigarette and sitting up on the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wait, " Boris grabbed my hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If you go now, you'll be angry. Don't be angry. I did mean it, I will stay, promise. Will also break up with girlfriends if it makes you happy." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Boris, this isn't about what makes me happy, I don't even –" this was way too fucked up and I needed to get out, but Boris sat up and threw his arms around my waist, pulling me into himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know, I'm sorry, but wait, okay?" his voice came out muffled from pressing his mouth on my back. "Don't go." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"This is fucked up, you know. I think we rushed into this too fast." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fast? Seriously, Potter?" he raised his head, "I've been waiting for you over ten years and you say it's too fast?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you suggest then, huh?" he raised his voice and pulled away, when there was no reply from me. "We pretend, yet again!" raised finger— "that this never happened so you can go back to your straight affairs that I bet you found really fucking satisfying?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's not what I'm saying!" I turned to him, my voice starting to grow shaky. A weird ripple ran through my chest, "I'm just saying we didn't think this through! How do you suggest this is going to work if we only see each other maybe twice a year?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why do you think we'll only see each twice a year? We're rich now! We can see each other as often as we want!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't see you for a fucking decade, Boris! I think that tells me pretty well how much you want to see me!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That was different! You know that. I thought you hated me," he finished quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well how about fucking checking in, eh? Before deciding completely on your own that I'm okay with you disappearing from my life for good. A text, a call, heck, a fucking note slipped in under the door, anything! I waited for you!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sat motionless, keeping his eyes on me. He then turned to look around the room, fidgeting with the corner of the sheet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't think you would," he finally said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sighed and, feeling strangely exposed, grabbed my boxers from the floor to pull them on, before going to the dresser to find some clothes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm sorry. I really thought you hated me," he said from the bed, still holding on to the sheet corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, well," I threw up my arms in his Russianate gesture, "it is what it is." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can we at least try again? At least talk?" his eyes were pleading with me. Hunched shoulders, expression open and sincere. Sitting in my bed among my messy sheets, pillow thrown at the other end, he looked almost smaller. I was never very good at saying no to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sat on the bed next to him and put my hand on top of his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I could never hate you," I said, keeping my eyes on our hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No?" Gingerly, he linked our fingers together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course not." Squeezing his hand, I leaned in slightly. He met me halfway and pressed our lips together, soft and delicate. I could taste a small smile on him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulled away but kept our foreheads together. "Now I will never disappear. You're stuck with me," he tried to sound stern but was failing horribly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good," I leaned in again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>________________</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I woke up to Boris shifting beneath my arm. I didn't open my eyes but I could sense he had turned himself to face me. The shadow of his thumb was hovering over my lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hmm," I smiled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Morning, Potter," his voice was quiet and gentle, polar opposite to his usual energetic shouts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opened my eyes to see him looking at me with a small smile on his lips. The morning light shined in through the window and inside me where it grew colossal and soft. Like the first clear breeze of spring, everything felt light and holy, full of promise of things yet to come. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I moved my hand up his back and pressed my forehead against his, closing my eyes again. We stayed there for what felt like an eternity. Between the morning sun and Boris, I was flooded over with warmth and safety, drifting somewhere high above the clouds, away from the menacing materiality of daily life. </span>


</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, we were cruelly dragged back down to earth by Boris's phone ringing. Boris groaned as he turned around to reach for it on the nightstand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is Gyuri," he said, before answering and starting to speak in Russian. His voice still contained the loitering presence of sleep, but it had lost its dreamy and tender tones. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's gonna pick me up in half an hour. Myriam got me a flight for this afternoon," he told me after hanging up and turning back to drape his arm around my waist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No," I said, propping myself up on my elbow to kiss him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you mean no?" he laughed, when I pulled away to breathe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not yet, it's too soon," I said, leaning in again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know what they say, gotta earn the bread. And stop frowning, you'll get permanent wrinkles and look like an old man," he laughed again, lifting his hand to smooth off the frown on my forehead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Take my money, I don't care." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll come back, is just for few weeks," he smiled against my lips. Rationally, yes, I knew that. But I could hear the warning bells clanging again, saying that this would be the last time I saw him, I better make it count. So I did. Maybe if I didn't take my hands from him, he wouldn't go. If I didn't let anything come between our lips, time would stop. As if I could take a single second and hold on to it. Stretch it out. Make it last a lifetime. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But reality is cruelly unrelenting and Boris's phone rang again, this time announcing that Gyuri was waiting downstairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay, I need a shower," Boris said, grabbing my hand and leading me into the bathroom with him. I could hear the phone ring at least three times while we were in there, and all too soon, we were standing by the front door, saying our goodbyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Text me when you land," I said, while Boris was putting on his fancy Italian shoes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will. I'll text you when I land and when I get into the car and when I drive to the hotel and when I get my room key," he laughed, standing up and coming over to me, where I was leaning against the wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I bet you won't even text when you land." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ha!" he let out his distinct bark of a laugh, "who knows, I might surprise you. No frowning," he added before kissing me swiftly on the lips, bright smile, "Love you!" and he was out the door, leaving me to the growing presence of emptiness and quiet that, despite having accompanied me better half of my life, suddenly felt like strangers. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry this one took longer than usual but here she is! Hope you enjoy!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The overcast sky, reflecting back from Manhattan high-rise office buildings across the street from my therapist’s room, amplified the sense of forlorn and misery that had descended upon the city. Gray, gray, gray, everywhere I looked. A blanket of mist filling every crack and corner of my mind. It was on days like these that the contrast between Vegas and New York really struck me: the vast, flaming desert stretching to the horizon and beyond, clear, razor-sharp heat, a burning of body and soul against the crowded, constraining city where at every step you were in danger of bumping into a person or another building, fog and rain, constant feeling of isolation without ever getting the chance to be alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What are you thinking about?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I tore my eyes from the window and turned to Dr. Jacobs sitting opposite me in her Persian blue armchair. Smart, wealthy looking woman in her forties, silk blouses, rigid pencil skirts, black Louboutins. Everything, from her clothes to her hair to her make-up, placed exactly in its proper place. I liked that about her. Her cold, impersonal look, like talking to a robot, nothing I said could ever be used against me. Completely unlike the therapists I had had as a kid, chummy Dave and hippy Mrs. Swanson. Maybe if I'd had someone who hadn't treated me like I was a five year old, I would've opened up back then and got some help, instead of ending up with this ridiculously long list of mental problems I had no idea how to deal with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're still not talking. You can voice your thoughts here, you know, that's what this is for." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right." I said after a brief pause. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How are things with Boris? From what you told me last time, it seems you two left things kind of open." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shrugged. "I don't know. He's still away for work so I haven't seen him. We text and call quite often though. So I guess we're kinda together now." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You guess?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. I guess." I let my eyes wander around the room, picking out familiar objects: the bronze horse statue on the small oak table in the corner, a pot of ivy on the windowsill, clawing its way towards the light, hoards of psychology books on the shelf behind her, my favorites being </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stumbling On Happiness</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Did something happen? You seem a bit on edge." Dr. Jacobs voice brought my attention back to her and her black clipboard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not really. It just business stuff, bills and you know how it is.." I trailed off and stared out the window again. Deep breath. "I still don't know when he's coming back."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been almost a month since I last saw Boris and I felt like I was drowning in the heavy summer air of the city. Sunny May had turned into a hellish June and his promised few weeks had turned into four without any talk of him returning. Not that I had asked. To my surprise, he’d kept his promise to text and even call, albeit erratically and with no concern to the time difference – waking me up in the middle of the night to ask what I thought of the picture of a dog he’d just sent me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You think he’d get along with Snaps? I think he looks too serious for him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We chatted about work and weather, about Popchik and Boris’s friends in Poland, music and movies, what we’d had for dinner and was it possible to predict the future in dreams. Anything that came to mind, just as we had done after Antwerp, the only difference being that now he ended all his calls with a quick </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love you!</span>
  </em>
  <span> to which I still didn't know how to reply to. I knew the right words as well as he did, yet for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to say it. The first time I had awkwardly muttered something incomprehensible before quickly hanging up, and afterwards opted into a simple </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bye!</span>
  </em>
  <span> hoping he could read between the lines. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The days were fine enough. I stayed rational and calm, focused on work and Popchik's frequent visits to the vet, dinners with the Barbours and client meetings in fancy restaurants, constantly reminding myself of his promise to stay. But missing him had ingrained itself into my bones and although we'd only shared two nights together, my bed felt impossibly empty without him. Like coming back from Vegas all over again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Have you asked him?" Dr. Jacobs asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why not?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know, I'm just –" I said to my hands on my lap, "I'm just scared, I guess. That this wasn't real. That he'll keep seeing other people, maybe disappear again. I know he won't," I added quickly, lifting my eyes to her immaculately done hair, "but I can't help feeling like that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's a big change you're going through, it's normal to feel insecure. But it would be better to get a firm answer on when he'll come back and how do you want your relationship to move –" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I wouldn't really call it a relationship," I cut her off before I could think better. Were we in a relationship? Somehow, the word seemed wholly wrong for whatever Boris and I had. Though thinking about him in foreign countries doing God knows what with God knows who tied my stomach in knots, not to mention the whole Astrid arrangement that I still continually thought about late at night, the image of the Swiss muesli family spinning around and around in my insomniac brain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What would you call it then?" she asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know. I want to –.” I turned my head to the window again, trying to form my thoughts into words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I want to be with him. But it's confusing. I'm not – I feel like.. saying it's a relationship somehow makes it into everyone else's business. But it's not. It's just between us. I would like to keep it that way." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Having a clear idea about your future together doesn't need to involve anyone else. At least not yet." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Like I said, it's all still very new," Dr. Jacobs continued. "You have time to figure things out. But talk to him. I'm sure he cares about you and would like to know what you're thinking." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Right." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You have achieved a lot these past few weeks. It took a lot of courage to admit your feelings for him. How do you feel about that?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How do I feel?" I frowned. Ever since the night at the bar, it seemed like the whole world had stopped for a second before bursting into millions of crystal clear fragments, rocketing at high speeds while constantly rearranging themselves, a piercing array of light. Time and space had extended and compressed simultaneously, reliving my teenage years in the desert with a banging new clarity; it was still us, dirty, neglected, raggedy teenage boys, yet we were also grown men with past hurt and a decade worth of baggage. Now he was gone again, leaving me to deal with seismic shifts and crumbling aftershocks all by myself; going to auction houses and gallery openings, grocery shopping and the doctor's office like nothing had happened, all the while feeling raw and fragile, exposed to harsh winds and icy waters. But being with him had shaken something loose - I was breathing again. Freely breathing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How do you feel?" she asked again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Like I'm waking up."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I got out on the street after the session the sky had started to clear with summer sun making its appearance again, so I decided to abandon the subway and walk home. As I was nearing the park, my phone rang. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Potter! Where are you?" Boris shouted as soon as I picked up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I let out an involuntary sigh of relief before answering. "I'm walking home, what is it?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm in Peterburg</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>come stay with me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought you’re coming back to New York?" I couldn’t help sounding dejected. “And didn’t you go to Warsaw?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Things changed, are you coming?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What? Now?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes now! I'll send you your plane ticket," he said and I could hear him typing something on a computer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I can't come now, Boris, I have work. Besides, won't I need a visa for Russia? That's gonna take a few weeks at least." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I got you a visa, don't worry. Myriam will come by the shop tomorrow morning so have your passport ready." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What are you –?" I stopped at the crossing despite the green light. "I don't want to go to jail for traveling with a fake visa! What the hell are you thinking?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed at the other end, "Is fine, Potter, stop worrying, I know what I'm doing. The girl who makes them is a true professional, an artist even! And I'll come to the airport in case they notice something and want a little extra. But they won't!" he raised his voice when I started protesting again, "They won't! I promise, okay, trust me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're unbelievable, honestly. And besides, I have work." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, I can't come back for another two weeks at least –" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You've already been away a month!" I couldn't help exclaiming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Things change," Boris said, "something came up, so you have to come and see me." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I told you I have work." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Or maybe even a month, two months!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Now you're just exaggerating." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is true! You'd be fine with not seeing me for three months?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wasn't it just two?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're missing the point!" he insisted before sighing again. "Come on. Don't you miss me?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I crossed the street and kept silent for a while. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mh?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shut up, I need to think," I said. Without noticing, my legs had carried me to the rendezvous bench in the park. I sat down and went through the plans I had scheduled for the next few weeks in my mind. The auctions, showrooms and estate visits grew smaller and smaller as the possibility of being with Boris again loomed on the horizon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fine," I relented not so reluctantly, "but I need to talk to Hobie first." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Perfect! There's a flight leaving tomorrow night that I can get you on. That's fine, yah?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't book anything yet! I'll call you tonight, tomorrow might be too soon." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll book it anyways, okay love you bye!" he hung up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Two days later, I was flying over the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of the night, on my way to St Petersburg with a beating heart and sweaty palms. Hobie had been more than gracious with my plans (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Go, go! God knows you need a holiday!</span>
  </em>
  <span>) and all my meetings were in the process of being rescheduled. The dry air of the plane almost made me sick with its familiarity. Expensive airport water and tasteless in-flight food. At least the vodka was decent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time I arrived, it was early afternoon and, except for a half an hour nap on the plane, I hadn't slept for over 24 hours. The wait at the immigration was a torment, with my all too familiar anxiety and panic bubbling in my stomach and threatening to consume me completely. But the immigration officer was casually chatting with the guy next to him and hardly even looked at my passport before tossing it back on the counter. Boris was waiting for me at the arrivals, looking bright and well rested in his dark jeans and white t-shirt, pair of sunglasses on his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"There you are," he said and, after giving me the once-over, pulled me in for an earth restoring hug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Let me take your suitcase, how was your flight? You're tired, no?" he started talking, leading me towards the escalators with a hand on my elbow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Exhausted. Please tell me we're going straight to the hotel." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I got a flat here actually, we'll go there, but no sleeping!" He poked me in the shoulder. "Need to get rid of that jet lag first." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We got to the underground parking lot and Boris heaved my suitcase into one of the black BMWs standing in the shadows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought you weren't allowed to drive? Your drunk driving conviction?" I asked, walking to the passenger's side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I can drive in Russia, no problem," he smiled cunningly and maneuvered out of the packed parking lot that was starting to give me claustrophobia. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"It's been a crazy summer this year, record temperatures, heat waves, talk about global warming, eh?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hummed in response and looked out the window as we drove out of Pulkovo and towards the city. Long gray highway stretching out before us, hot air shimmering above it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You've never been to Russia, no? Ha! Now we're really get you to learn Russian, you'll be an expert by the time we leave!" Boris smiled brightly as he caught my eye. "Is a beautiful city, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Peterburg, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Northern Venice, they call it, lot of history. We'll go to the Hermitage and Tsarskoye Selo and Peterhof. It'll be great! I have some great friends here, too. Natasha, Lyosha, Dima... Toly, you remember him, yes?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's actually from Petersburg, too! Well, not really, he's from Kirovsk, but close enough. I came here first when I was, when was it?" eyes darting to the ceiling – "maybe six or seven years ago? First time I got out of America after, you know, you and me and – well, anyways," wave of the hand – "I hadn't been to Russia in years by then, had forgotten so much, could hardly order glass of vodka, ha! But made many many friends, was back to my A game in no time. Russian people are very nice, you'll see, I'll introduce you to all my friends, you'll like them!" dashing smile, light slap on my arm – "But don't believe everything they tell you! Most of them have hardly been outside the country ever, except for Belarus or Crimea, all the information they get being fed to them by Putin, all bullshit," click of the tongue – "too brainwashed to think for themselves, think from another perspective, you know? Like sheep! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Čoknutyj!</span>
  </em>
  <span> That's a big problem in Russia that no one wants to talk about. Or no one can talk about! All these people, no education, and I don't mean schools, mind you! You can get very good education without school, even better I would argue, but they don't think! They just jump on wagon and repeat what they've heard. And that's been a problem for long time! Is what Dostoevsky wrote about, remember? Doktorenko and the lot?" he looked over at me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The old guy's nephew? I hated that punk." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes yes! The one! Rights, rights, we have rights, all he said, all the time just taking advantage of poor Myshkin. But that's my point, that's what Dostoevsky and many Russian intellectuals have argued! What is the true Russian spirit? How can we be fair and kind and good in Russian way, follow Russian principles, not just take every social movement and political agenda from Europe and force it into a society that works completely differently. How to think for ourselves, understand good and bad, right and wrong. You read Bulgakov in your Russian class? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Master and Margarita</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rokovye jajca</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What's it called?" snapping fingers – "Destiny eggs?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Destiny eggs?" I laughed, "I don't think so, we mostly stuck to pre 20th century." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well you should read it, is satire, very funny! But also insightful. Or Ilf and Petrov! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Twelve chairs </span>
  </em>
  <span>and – </span>
  <em>
    <span>Na hui blyad!" </span>
  </em>
  <span>Boris suddenly shouted, screeching the tires as someone abruptly pulled in front of us. "Fucking Russians." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I fixed my glasses that had slipped down my nose from the sudden stop and checked the cars around us. The entire time Boris had been talking, cars had been pulling in front of each other in stunt-like maneuvers, turning without blinkers, squeezing into impossible spaces and speeding way above the speed limit. Boris himself was driving over the limit, but he still seemed to be one of the calmer ones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look at them! Like wildlings," Boris continued, "and that's the problem with Russia, what Dostoevsky and Chekhov and Gogol all warned us about - as soon as someone thinks differently, thinks how to change the system, make life better, they get killed or sent to jail or have to escape abroad! The government hates people who think differently! Look at Nemtsov or Karmanov or Navalny or whoever! The list goes on and on, is crazy! And then we are left with this lot," he finished, waving his hand at the cars around us. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't think you read fiction anymore?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Eh?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You said you didn't read fiction after </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Idiot.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, I started reading again, some time ago," he said hesitantly and pulled to a stop at a red light (very courteous of him, as red lights seemed to be more of a suggestion than a rule here). </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But enough about them, we'll have good time tonight! We'll go out, yes? We'll go to Dima's, he always throws the craziest parties!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well if you wanna go out tonight then I definitely need to sleep." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nah-ah, not now," he said, shaking my shoulder as I leaned my head on the side of the car and tried to make myself comfortable, "need to get rid of that jet lag."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Boris, come on, I haven't slept for over a day. Just let me take a nap, it's fine." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You want something to help you stay awake? We can get coffee, I know some good places for very strong stuff. Or blow? I don't have anything in the car but I can get you some," he offered, taking his phone from the dashboard and starting to scroll through his contacts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, I'm fine, just wake me up when we get to the apartment," I snuggled back to my corner, taking my glasses off and carefully placing them on my lap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay okay, sleep then," Boris relented and patted me on the shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I woke up to him opening the door for me and slapping me gently on the face. "Nap time's over, Potter." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We had stopped on a quiet street in front of a heavy-looking stone building facing a small park, with high windows and simple robust engravings. The paint on the walls was faded and peeling off, with batches of moss covered bricks showing underneath. All the buildings in the street, including our own, had a small front lawn, some of which were fairly neat and tidy, bordered with trimmed hedges and beds of begonias; but others had overgrown with weeds, grass growing from the cracks in the pavement and japanese honeysuckle covering the short stone steps leading to the front door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Where are we?" I asked as we climbed up the cold stone stairwell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"In Petrogradsky, not too far from the botanical garden," Boris answered, unlocking the front door of the apartment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although the hallway had been dirty and bleak, the apartment itself was surprisingly bright and very clean. With its high ceilings, hardwood floors and golden door knobs, it looked like it had been a home to a 19th century school teacher who had recently moved out. A plain chandelier hung from the ceiling and long lace curtains were gently swaying with the wind coming through the open windows. The living room was scantily furnished, with a sofa, coffee table and a small bookshelf that was mostly empty, except for a collection of tourist maps for what looked like every European city. One corner of the room was spared for a small kitchenette, separated from the rest of the apartment by a glossy fake marble counter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You live here?" I asked in surprise. With its soft airy atmosphere, the place didn't feel like Boris at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Only for the time being. Myriam lives here mostly but she's with her girlfriend in New York now. Are you hungry? We'll have to go out then, there's nothing here." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, I'll just take a quick shower first." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bathroom’s through there," Boris pointed at the door at the other end of the room and flopped down on the sofa, resting his feet on the coffee table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door led to an equally bare and tidy bedroom, containing nothing but a king sized bed and an oak dresser, and a door leading to a small bathroom. I went back to the bedroom to change after my shower and eyed at the bed over my suitcase. The bright white sheets and fluffy pillows seemed to whisper to me to lay down, crawl under the blanket with Boris's arms wrapped around me, his breath easy in my ear. I had slept like shit ever since he left.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Since it was warm and sunny outside, we decided to abandon the car and instead walk to the restaurant Boris was eager to show me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What time is it?" I asked as we stepped outside, surprised at how light it still was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Almost eight, " he answered, walking briskly to the opposite direction of where the city center seemed to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No way." The sun was still high in the sky, it seemed like barely past noon. As if my jet-lagged brain wasn't already confused with the times, now the sun was acting all weird. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes way. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Belye nochi</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Potter. It won't get dark until midnight." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a twenty minute walk, we arrived at an old factory building that looked like it had been abandoned years ago. The windows were either boarded up or filthy gray with broken glass, walls covered with graffiti – anarchy signs, various curse words both in Cyrillic and Latin letters, misspelled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Die Hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> quotes. Boris opened the heavy iron door for me that led to the basement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You sure it's the right place, Boris?" I eyed the dark stairs hesitantly, still standing on the sidewalk. "I don't want to get murdered tonight." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't be such a snob, Potter. I know it doesn't look the best but trust me, they make the best chicken Kiev in city. And you have to try the syrniki!" he motioned me to go inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking through the door I was immediately hit with the damp smell of mustiness and wormwood, but reaching the bottom of the stairs, it was overpowered with the inviting aroma of fried onions, baked potatoes and fresh bread. The room was dimly lit, with dark brown walls and cheap glossy veneer tables, worn down red velvet seats and lonely red carnations standing on each table. Boris nudged me in the back and pointed towards a table at the corner, where a middle aged waiter with a wide beer gut was collecting the dishes from previous customers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Lyosha!" Boris shouted before we were half way across the room to which the waiter turned around and grinned widely, revealing yellow tobacco stained teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Borya! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Uže vernulsja</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" he patted him on the back and a rapid conversation in Russian, accompanied with grand gesticulations, ensued between them. At one point Boris gestured to me, to which the waiter clapped my shoulder so hard I flinched, and said something incomprehensible before laughing raucously. I nodded and smiled vaguely and slid onto the seat he had pulled out for me. There were no menus on the table, but Boris seemed to be a regular, listing different dishes to the waiter who nodded along enthusiastically before disappearing into the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You come here often?" I asked, shouldering my jacket off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Whenever I'm in Petersburg. Lyosha's sister, Natasha, was in Frankfurt with me when I first started my business," he explained. "She's the cook here, you'll see her later. It was hard at first, to establish a footing for myself, but Natasha, she worked in one of the Georgian restaurants back then, provided me with some useful links and a place to do business. Got me going in Europe. Her grandmother is from Georgia and makes the best </span>
  <em>
    <span>khachapuri </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the world! The best! We'll go visit her someday, you have to try it!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lyosha reappeared with a bottle of Stolichnaya, two shot glasses and a small plate of pickles and marinated garlic. Although the place was filling up fast, apparently a favorite with the locals, he didn't seem at all troubled by all the customers waiting, and instead chatted with Boris before lazily turning back to the kitchen to fetch our food. Plate after plate he carried out aromatic dishes and placed them on our table with Boris pointing everything out for me: borscht, dressed herring, chicken Kiev, golubtsy, rosolje, syrniki. The food looked simple but tasted heavenly, Boris eagerly pressing me to eat more and even though I felt like would explode after another bite, I couldn't bare to leave my plate empty, not only because the food was so good, but because the more I ate, the happier he seemed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's good, no?" he asked, snatching a half eaten syrniki from my plate and dipping it in the leftover sour cream on the herring plate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Perfect," I answered and leaned against the wall. The room was warm, the chair was soft, I was dizzy from the food and vodka and could feel my eyelids growing heavy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris looked at me and laughed, "I think Dima can wait another day, you'll be no fun tonight, snoring in the corner." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't snore," I mumbled, eyes half closed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How would you know?" he smiled, kicking my foot companionably under the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Do I snore? I remember wondering before sleep took hold of me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I woke up in the morning to Boris climbing back to bed and snuggling under the blanket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Morning," he smiled, when I opened my eyes and found him lying next to me. "Sleep well? You went out like a light last night." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hummed in response and rubbed my eyes. "I don't remember coming back here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No wonder, you could barely walk to the taxi. I basically had to carry you up here, you were out as soon as you hit the bed." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I groaned in reply and realized that despite what Boris had just told me, I was wearing different clothes than the ones I went out with last night. Dark t-shirt and comfy sweatpants that didn't look mine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you want to do today?" Boris asked. "Do you want to see the sights or we could do something more fun, like meet my friends?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Either way. We can do both, I kinda wanna see the Winter Palace, though."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay, we'll see sights in the morning and go to Dima's later." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He started telling me about the best bars in Petersburg, where we had to go before I went back home, but I was barely listening. He was shirtless and when he stretched his arm out to wrap it around my waist, I could see faint needle marks on the inside of his elbow. Without thinking, I traced my finger over them at which he immediately fell quiet. We lay silent for a while. Cars driving past the open bedroom window, blackbirds singing in the park across the street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I wish you'd stop," I finally said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I have. Almost. Have only done it once in past months." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That doesn't mean you've stopped. If you'd been clean for months, why did you relapse?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is not important," he said and closing his eyes, snuggled his face into the pillow, which only made me more suspicious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"When was it?" I asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It doesn't matter," he muttered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"When?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned his head to face me and sighed, "The first night I was back in New York. After I left your place. Is not your fault," he added hurriedly after seeing the look on my face. It felt like my fault. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't wanna talk about it now, we're having a good morning," he inched himself closer to me and closed his eyes again, gently stroking my back. For some reason that movement both comforted and appalled me and I couldn't figure out which feeling was stronger. He was so close I could feel his warm breath on my face when he exhaled. I lifted my hand up to his face and stroked my thumb across his cheek, to which he smiled, feeling the rough stubble on his skin. With a banging clarity, I realized I wasn't just with Boris but I was actually lying next to a man, which was a ridiculously late realization to make considering the things we'd done during our last two nights together in New York. Boris was just Boris to me, and back then I had been so overwhelmed with everything that had happened between us that the enormity of what I was doing only now started to dawn on me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You need to shave," I said, getting up from the bed and hurrying to the bathroom, not stopping to see the look on his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We spent the day going about the main sights in the city, the Hermitage, Peter and Paul Fortress, botanical gardens. Piercing sunlight and sweltering summer air that couldn't be dispelled even by the cool breeze coming in from the sea. It was easy enough in public, Boris was merry and boisterous, eager to explain the cultural dynamics of Russians and teach me new words. <em>Moroženoe</em> and <em>globalnoe poteplenie. </em>Swaying on the tram, shoulders bumping together, pushing me on the stairs and stealing a generous piece from my greasy jam <em>piroshki</em>. Joking and laughing like we were regular friends. But at other moments I would catch him smiling at me differently, so gentle and loving I had to look away. He'd linger his hand on mine for too long when passing me a cigarette so I had to pull my hand away. Sitting just a little too close on one of the benches in the garden of the Winter Palace with that light in his eye again I couldn't face. I stared at the tourists instead, men and women holding hands or arms around each others waists, families bickering, mom, dad, two point five kids. Asian girls with long black hair and small stuffed animals hanging from their phones and bags, taking selfies with their boyfriends kissing them on the cheek. All these empty, happy people enjoying the casual intimacy with their loved ones like it was nothing. Self evident. Normal. Did they know how lucky they were?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You okay?" Boris's voice brought me back to earth. He was leaning slightly forwards, eyeing me with a small frown on his forehead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. I'm fine." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You sure? You've been quiet for a while, never a good sign with you." He raised his eyebrows and gave me a small nod – </span>
  <em>
    <span>What is it? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm just –" I started and stopped, looking around me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's Boris, for Christ sake, you can tell him anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. "How are you so casual about this?" I blurted out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"About what?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know," I waved my hand carelessly between us. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You and me?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, but not just that. I mean, you're – you've only been with women, right?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well.." He stretched the word and smiled cheekily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You said I'm the only boy you've ever been in bed with!" I said accusingly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You are! Technically. You don't really need a bed for a lot of things."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"God." I turned my head away, trying to process this new information. "But that's what I'm talking about. How are you so fine with it? So fine with yourself?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Liking men, you mean? I don't know," he shrugged. "I guess I've never really drawn such a sharp distinction as you have. If I'm attracted to someone, then I'm attracted to them. Simple as that. Why does it matter?"  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't know. It just does. Did you know before Vegas?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No no!" he shook his head vigorously. "You were the first boy, you can be sure about that. It was different back then. I mean, my dad would've killed me if he'd known what we were doing. And we were both just kids, of course we didn't talk about it, it was a fucked up time. How could we have admitted any of this? It was too big for us. I used to think it was for the best we didn't say anything, but now I'm not so sure. I think it would have been awkward at first but maybe we would have stayed together, you know? Would have made things happier? If we'd just talked? Not that I blame you! God knows you had enough things to deal with. But I had a hard time facing this, too. He's a boy, you can't love a boy, you can't feel this way. Had to stop myself so many times. So I told myself it was just the loneliness and got a girlfriend. Never mind that we didn't stop after Kotku," he laughed, but fell quiet quickly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And now?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Eh?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're fine with, you know. Being with," I shrugged. "With me?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at me lovingly, soft summer breeze playing with his curls. "How can you even ask that? It's you and me, right? Is always been you and me." He squeezed my hand before getting up from the bench. "C'mon. Let's go home. I want to kiss you but is not a good idea to do it here. Very homophobic country." </span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We returned to the apartment for the afternoon before going to Boris's friend's place for the crazy party he had promised. Boris made us tea in the small kitchen before sitting next to me on the sofa and, after placing the mugs on the coffee table, leaned in to kiss me. Without thinking I turned my head away and stared at the empty cream wall instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mh. What?" he pinched my arm and sounded annoyed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing," I said, reaching for my phone on the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're acting weird. You know, you've been here over a day and we haven't even kissed. Is this about what I said? That you're not the only boy I've been with?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No. It's not that." Though I hadn't been happy to hear it. I turned the phone around in my hand without turning the screen on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is it something else I said?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, not that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"My breath stinks?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not that." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't like me anymore?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not that." Although all the things he had said felt completely wrong, I had no idea what the right answer was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What is it then?" he asked, looking worried. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I just –" I bit the inside of my lip and stared at the blank phone screen. "Give me a minute," I said, getting up from the sofa and taking the pack of Marlboros from the coffee table with me to go to the balcony. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I watched the people in the park across the road from our building. People having picnics on the grass, throwing frisbees to dogs, smoking on the benches, kids playing in the fountain in the middle of the small square. Normal summer afternoon. So what the hell was wrong with me? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After two cigarettes I went back inside and sat down next to him. He was still in the same position I had left him at, one leg resting on the bottom shelf of the coffee table, the other bent on the sofa, his arm flung over the backrest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not –" I cleared my throat and kept my eyes on my hands, playing with the cigarette pack, "I just – I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate </span>
  </em>
  <span>how much I want you. It's like – almost like – like I'm attacking you or something, like I'm not – I'm not supposed to want this so much. Not supposed to want you so much." I raised my head and looked at the window behind him, "it's not supposed to feel this right, so – so good, I'm –" I stared back down at the pack in my hands, it was completely bent and distorted. All the cigarettes must have been ruined. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Theo," he put his hand on my knee. I flinched at his touch but he wouldn't take it away, "why are you saying these things? You're not attacking me or whatever, how could you? We want the same thing." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turned my head away and started to get up, "Never mind, I shouldn't have said anything."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulled me back down by my arm and frowned, "No no, let's talk this out now. What's wrong?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nothing's wrong, just forget I said anything. Aren't we late for Dima's anyway?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Dima can wait. I want to know why you won't kiss me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I told you! I'm not – you don't understand." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Help me to understand then! What do you mean you want too much?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's just wrong! You're so close, just so fucking close! I can't –! It's disgusting how I'm – I'm disgusting! What I think, how I feel, what I want! It's just wrong! I can't stand myself –" Why couldn't I have just kept my mouth shut? Pretend everything was okay. I would've gotten over this eventually. Now he'll see how fucked up I am and leave.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had fallen quiet during my outburst and still wouldn't say a word. Probably contemplating how to best break up whatever the hell it was we had before sending me off on the first flight back to New York. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, without saying anything, he half stood up with one knee on the sofa and wrapped his arms around my neck so my head pressed into his shoulder, pulling me into himself. "I'm sorry," his mouth was pressed against the top of my head and, though his voice came out muffled, I could hear how upset he was. "I don't know what to say to make you feel better. But you're wrong. There's nothing bad or disgusting about you. You're the best person I know." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sat motionless for a while, feeling him breathe into my hair. I then hid my face to his chest and slowly reached my arms around him. Carefully placing my hands on his back, barely making contact. He tightened his grip and finally I gave in. I wrapped my arms around him as tight as I could, clutching at his shirt, my face buried in him. My glasses had gone askew and painfully pressed into my temples and the bridge of my nose but I could hardly feel it. His heartbeats were too loud. His smell was too overpowering. He was everywhere around me. I let out an exhausted breath. I was safe. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoy!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We spent the evening slouching on the sofa, watching old episodes of <em> Gena The Crocodile </em> in Russian on Boris’s laptop before taking the taxi to his friend’s place somewhere at the edge of the city. The setting sun slanted through endless rows of monotonous old Soviet style blockhouses, gold and orange rays gliding off gray facades, Boris absentmindedly humming <em> goluboj vagon </em>next to me. </p>
<p>We climbed up to seventh floor for the flat (elevator out of order), while waiting at the door – muffled music and noisy cheers coming from the inside – I looked out the dust covered window in the stairwell at the maze of identical buildings expanding before me. Nine stories, twelve stories, patches of grass dotted with bright yellow dandelions in between. Laundry hanging on small decaying balconies, chipped wooden window frames and rusty satellite disks on the walls. The perfect hideout for a post-apocalyptic world if you could only remember which building was yours. </p>
<p>A short, dark haired man dressed from head to toe in an Adidas tracksuit opened the door and, upon seeing Boris, a wide smile spread across his face. </p>
<p>"Borya, <em> kakim nahuj vetrom tebja sjuda zaneslo?! </em>" he laughed, pulling Boris in for a hug. </p>
<p>Boris answered something, also laughing, and pulled me closer by the arm, saying something fast in Russian of which I could only discern <em> Amerikanskii.  </em></p>
<p>"Yes! Potter! Of course," Dima (for that's who the guy was) said with a strong Slavic accent and shook my hand vigorously, "have heard so much. Please, come in, come in." </p>
<p>The hallway was narrow and dim, overflowing with shoes, boots, coats and jackets. We walked to the living room, which was surprisingly spacious considering the derelict state of the building, but still felt far too small for the hoards of people who had gathered there. Shouting and laughing over the deafening music, staggering drunkenly around, some of them dancing on a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room or making out on the worn down leather sofa. Gold chains and flashy gold watches, Adidas jerseys and Armani suits, aggressive looking skinheads and girls in tight leather skirts. Bottles of vodka raging from empty to half full to still unopened filling every available surface and, everywhere I looked: lines, lines, lines. Coffee table, kitchen counter, pocket mirrors and smartphones. The place was a drug nest and I had been sober for ten months, two weeks and four days. </p>
<p>Boris caught me staring at a brunette in a white fitting dress snorting from some guys bare stomach and kicked my shin to get my attention.</p>
<p>"Hey, don't take anything they give you, okay? There's some highly questionable stuff moving around here, Dima doesn't discriminate, that's why he has so many friends, eh!" He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. "But don't worry, I know some guys here, I'll get us something good quick." </p>
<p>I had been debating with myself ever since I had gone clean whether or not I should tell Boris. At first it had seemed something that I didn't think he would understand, then I convinced myself it’s really not that important and he probably wouldn't care anyways and during the last weeks in New York I had decided it’s a conversation best had face to face. But now, when he was standing next to me, hand on my arm, excitedly looking around the room and waving at old friends, all I could do was nod and smile. </p>
<p>Boris waved at a tall blond woman mixing drinks at the other end of the room, who came over to us. </p>
<p>"This is Marina. Marina, Potter," he introduced us, after kissing her on the cheek and saying something in Swedish, "Marina is my girl in Stockholm. Not that," he added quickly, seeing the look on my face, "she works for me. She studied abroad in America, in Boston, so you two have a lot to talk about while I – " he motioned with his head towards Dima who was leaning over some girls on the sofa and left us standing in the corner. </p>
<p>"So, hi. Potter, yeah, you're the American friend?" Marina asked, slightly swaying on her feet while pouring me a shot of vodka. </p>
<p>"Yeah, um, New York. Though Boris and I met in Vegas. Thanks," I accepted the drink, trying to ignore the guy who had just bumped into me, looking barely old enough to drive but clearly high as a kite. "<em> Sto lat." </em>I raised my glass at her. </p>
<p>"Oh yeah, he's told me about you, childhood friend, all that, though he probably doesn't remember," she shrugged. </p>
<p>"What do you mean?" The teenager had slouched down on the shabby armchair next to me, staring us with apparent confusion, eyes bloodshot.</p>
<p>"He usually talks about you when he’s drunk or high. Or he used to at least, when we were still seeing each other. He’s been weirdly quiet lately, doesn’t go out as much anymore. Which is a relief in a way really, he was pretty messed up when I first met him.</p>
<p>“He was?” My eyes darted around the room, looking for Boris but he had disappeared somewhere with Dima. “Wait, did you say were seeing each other? When was that?” I stared at her.</p>
<p>“Some time ago now, seven-eight years maybe?” She contemplated, slightly slurring her words, “Just before Astrid anyways. Back then he was seriously fucked up, I mean, I was pretty bad as well but him? Drunk or high every night, coke, heroin, you name it. It was fun at first but after a while it got a bit too much for me, the guy obviously has some issues to sort out.”</p>
<p>"Yeah? Like what?" I tried to sound casual but I was starting to feel irritated over the lack of personal space the people in the room were giving me and, frankly, I didn’t like Marina very much. What the hell did she know about Boris and what he’d been through?</p>
<p>"Well, you're good friends, right?" she eyed me underneath her heavy eyelids before continuing, "You know how he is, all fun and games when he's sober or even drunk but as soon as he shoots up? God. Won’t shut up about the lost love of his life." </p>
<p>"Love of his life?" I stopped trying to find Boris and stared at her, remembering what he'd told me about that Katya tattoo on his arm all those months ago. "What are you talking about?" </p>
<p>"I'm not sure. I thought we were close once but obviously that wasn't the case. But anyways, that was years ago, I have long learned to spend my energy and time on other guys. He's still great to work for, though, or have a casual fling with, no complaints in that department." </p>
<p>I wanted to ask more about what the hell did she mean by lost love and how much did she know, but Boris had finally returned from the hallway and, catching my eye from across the room, jerked his head towards another door at the back. I excused myself and followed him to a dark bedroom where, after closing the door, he pulled out a small bag with all too familiar white powder. </p>
<p>"I thought you'd rather do it somewhere quiet," he explained, cutting lines of coke on a veneer cabinet in the corner. </p>
<p>"Yeah, sure," I mumbled, eagerly watching over his shoulder. Sharp sting, waves crashing over my head, crystal clear clarity. Oh, how I've missed you, I thought, leaning my head back, trying to remember why had I ever decided to quit. </p>
<p>"Is good, yea?" Boris looked at me smiling before cutting new lines for himself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Coming out of the room was like walking to a completely different party. Deep bass loud enough to make the drink glasses shake and my bones vibrate, laughter and shouts, sweat, booze, weed, faint lights and sharp gold reflections – everything blending together into a perfect symphony of life. Bodies pressed against one another on the too small sofa, Dima and some other guys trying out their Southern accents on me, <em> Ya'll, Get off my property!, </em> keeling over with laughter, Boris’s hand sneakily on my knee. A bottle flying out the closed window, the last midnight ray cutting through the shattered glass. Passing the bag between us, jaw clenched tight. The brunette I had noticed earlier slid onto my lap at one point, when Boris had took off to talk to some old friend, telling me something in Russian or Ukrainian or whatever the fuck country she was from. Someone slapping me on the shoulder so hard I flinched and spilled my drink, <em> Amerikanskii </em> you know Arnold Schwarzenegger yes <em> I’ll be back </em> hahaha tell him I’m big fan, another bottle in my hand, someone offering me joint yeah thanks <em> spasibo </em>sweaty hands, needles and more lines, some guy face down on the floor seemingly dead but maybe just passed out or asleep no one seemed to care so why should I. Walls shrinking, the room growing smaller and smaller by the minute, hot breaths, flaming smoke in the air, the heat radiating from the bodies around me becoming sticky and tangible and still no sign of Boris anywhere. </p>
<p>The girl on my lap was growing heavy and trying to make out so I pushed her off me and got up, not even bothering to mumble an apology, and went to look for Boris. I found him standing in the small kitchen, leaning against the fridge, talking to some girls in short skirts with a bottle of beer in his hand. Messy black curls sticking to his forehead from the heat, tapping his finger frantically on the bottle. His shirt had ridden up from leaning against the fridge, revealing pale skin and the faint scar above his hip bone I knew far too well. </p>
<p>I went over to him, "Hey, do you wanna –" I motioned with my head towards the bathroom. </p>
<p>"Sure," he smiled deviously, raising a playful eyebrow, before turning to the girls, "<em> Izvinite."  </em></p>
<p>As soon as the bathroom door was locked behind us, I pressed him against the wall, hungry to make up for the long, dry, bland month we had spent apart. Forgetting every doubt and stupid anxiety I had simmered in over the past month, it was just him, him, him. His breath, his skin, his smell, his hands under my shirt, his hair in my fist, his mouth on mine, everything about him consuming me fully. Ravenously pulling me closer like the world is ending and we're running out of time. </p>
<p>"Fuck I missed you," Boris whispered into my skin as my hands slid down the familiar curve of his body, my heart throbbing in my head. Fluorescent lights, gleaming sapphire tiles, muffled music coming in through the door. </p>
<p>"My turn," he said, when I got up again, blowing the hair out his face and smiling brightly while buttoning up his jeans. He grabbed onto my shirt and flipped us over with me against the wall as I was fixing my glasses. </p>
<p>"Wait wait," I laughed, taking his hands in mine, feeling hot and feverish, "before you do, do you have anymore –?" </p>
<p>He smiled comradely and pulled out a small bag from his back pocket. "You little junkie," he laughed, tapping out the blow on the back of his hand. </p>
<p>I chuckled, “Hold still,” bending over his hand and holding on to his shoulder to steady myself, Boris giggling in my ear. A quick one two. Leaning my head against the wall, scratchy throat, my heart threatening to burst through my chest. The slight frown on Boris’s face the last thing I remember before everything faded into a hazy blur. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I came to, I was lying on a bed in a dark room with an ice pack on my head and worried Boris sitting next to me, his shirt still only halfway buttoned. </p>
<p>“You back now?” He asked, cupping my face with one hand. The party was still going on at the other end of the door, the music doing no favors for my agonizing headache.</p>
<p>“Water,” I groaned in reply.</p>
<p>Boris helped me sit up slightly before giving me a glass from the nightstand, keeping his other hand firmly clutched to my shoulder.</p>
<p>“What happened? I know your limits, you didn’t do half as much as you used to. Did you take something from someone? I told you not to!” He sounded almost angry. </p>
<p>“I didn’t,” I lay back down and adjusted the ice pack on my head. “Can we not talk about this now? I think I’m gonna be sick.”</p>
<p>He sighed, still keeping his hand on my shoulder. “Okay, we’ll talk in the morning. Let’s take you home.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next morning I woke up in an empty bed back in the apartment, burning sunlight gushing through the open window. I crawled out of the bed and staggered to the living room, where Boris was leaning against the kitchen counter, typing on his phone, half eaten toast hanging from his mouth. I perched myself on the bar stool by the counter and covered my face with my hands.</p>
<p>“How are you feeling?” He put the phone down and came over, placing his warm hand on my head. “You look like shit.”</p>
<p>“I feel like shit,” I groaned and peeked through my fingers. The room was weirdly blurry, for a moment I thought it was some strange symptom of overdosing last night before realizing I’d forgotten to put my glasses on. Up close I could see the dark bags under Boris’s eyes, his hair messy and sticking up in every direction, as if he had run his hands through them a million times. </p>
<p>“You don’t look so good either,” I said, “did you get any sleep?”</p>
<p>“A little, but you didn’t sleep so well also.” He looked at me a bit drowsily before perking up like he had deciding on something. “Strong tea. That’s what we need.” </p>
<p>He slapped me on the shoulder and put the kettle on. We sat in silence, listening to the water boil, Boris keeping his eyes on me. Clearly waiting for me to start the conversation but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.</p>
<p>“So,” he placed two mugs of boiling hot tea and a bowl of sugar on the counter and sat across from me, “you wanna tell me what happened last night?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Don’t play stupid with me. You know what I mean. Why’d you OD? What did you take?”</p>
<p>“I told you, I didn’t take anything. Just the stuff you gave me. I just haven’t done blow in a while.”</p>
<p>“How long?”</p>
<p>I shrugged. “Ten months. Give or take.”</p>
<p>“Ten months?” He stared at me alarmed. “And oxys? Heroin?”</p>
<p>“Nothing. I went clean ten months ago,” I admitted.</p>
<p>He made an exasperated noise, “And you didn’t think to tell me?”</p>
<p>I shrugged again and took a sip of my tea.</p>
<p>“Don’t shrug at me! You could have died! I could have killed you! This is not a fucking joke, is serious! How could you be so stupid! Why didn’t you tell me? You know how drugs works, you’re supposed to be smarter than this!”</p>
<p>I stared at my mug. The sounds of traffic coming in from the open window felt impossibly loud, every tire screech and shout like another nail being hit in my skull. </p>
<p>“Why did you take it?” He asked. I could see the effort he made to keep his voice calm and collected. </p>
<p>“You know why,” I said, after a disbelieving pause. “Come on, Boris. Seriously. You’re an addict yourself.”</p>
<p>“Maybe I don’t know. Or maybe, I’m thinking, there’s a reason you didn’t tell me.” He reached across the counter to take my hand. “Theo. Please. You have to tell me.” </p>
<p>I met his gaze and only then realized why he looked like he had been up all night.</p>
<p>“No, Boris,” I shook my head. “It’s not that. I swear.”</p>
<p>“How can I be sure? With what you’ve done before? Lying on the road, jumping off the roof, forcing yourself under water?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t want to kill myself, okay? It’s not that.”</p>
<p>“What is it then?”</p>
<p>I sighed. “What can I say? I’m an addict. I saw it, I wanted it, I took it. Simple as that.”</p>
<p>“And you promise me you didn’t want to kill yourself? And you won’t kill yourself?”</p>
<p>“Boris, I’m not – Well, I’m not good exactly but I’m better.”</p>
<p>“Because I can’t lose you, you know?” He squeezed my hand, eyes locked on mine. “Not when I just got you back.”</p>
<p>I bit my lip and gave a small nod.</p>
<p>“I think is good you went clean, it was bad for you. Back when we were kids I guess we didn’t know any better, wanted to drown our worries, forget about pain, but this is not the solution. But now we’re older and, hopefully, smarter, so we can talk things through.” He let his hands drop to his lap and looked at me, eyes heavy-lidded from sleep deprivation. “You’ll tell me, right? If anything’s wrong or bad?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” my voice barely audible.</p>
<p>“Okay, good. So,” he said in his let’s-drop-it-and-move-on voice, “you’ll stay clean from now on, I’ll make sure of that.”</p>
<p>I raised my head and frowned at that. “Yeah? And what about you?”</p>
<p>“What about me?”</p>
<p>“Who’s playing stupid now? If I’m gonna be clean then so are you. It’s not gonna work otherwise.”</p>
<p>“I told you. I only do it very rarely, on a bad day maybe.”</p>
<p>“That’s still a habit, you know that as well as I do.”</p>
<p>“Fine. You quit, I quit. Is no problem. Happy?”</p>
<p>“Not until I see you actually quit. And there’s other stuff as well.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Well,” I pulled the sleeves over my hands and glanced out the window. </p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>He was leaning slightly forwards, elbows resting on the counter, brows drawn together in a questioning frown.</p>
<p>“I have to go back to New York at some point. What do we do then?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean? I’ll visit you, you visit me. For now at least. We’ll figure something out.”</p>
<p>“You said you’ll stay,” I didn’t want to sound accusing but somehow it came out like that.</p>
<p>“Yes, that,” he rubbed his face with one hand, “I’ve been thinking about this and, I think, with how things are now, with your job and mine, it’s very difficult. I have to travel a lot but you have to stay in New York, very hard to find a good solution.”</p>
<p>“Right.” In the back of my head I had feared this ever since we reunited almost two years ago. We had spent so much time apart, what if the lives we had built had become incompatible?</p>
<p>"So, I was thinking,” he continued, small smile on his lips, spark in his eyes, “you should come work with me!”</p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“Quit the furniture job and work with me, it’ll be fun!”</p>
<p>His tired eyes had lit up, making him seem a lot younger than he was, childlike and spontaneous, like the time he had figured out we’d get a lot better grades and hence less talk from teachers if I did all his history homework and he did my math and physics ones. </p>
<p>"I can't," I answered quietly after a pause, avoiding his gaze. </p>
<p>"Why not? You don't have to do anything criminal! No guns, no drugs, no nothing. Is just background organizing. I'll keep you clean of anything else, I promise. Don't you trust me?" He grabbed my hand across the counter as if he was scared I’d get up and leave.</p>
<p>"What? Of course I do, Boris, I -," I searched the room in desperation, as if the words I was looking for could be imprinted on the walls. </p>
<p>"What is it then? We could stay together, no? Travel the world! Like we promised! We'll go to New Guinea and Rome and Buenos Aires, anywhere you want! And with the money we'll make? I mean, my network and your brains? Whew! We can buy you more furniture and bird paintings than you can even dream of!" </p>
<p>I looked down and stroked my thumb across his scratchy knuckles, lingering on the small scar on his ring finger from the time he fell down the monkey bars back in Vegas. </p>
<p>"I want to, but –"</p>
<p>"What is it then? Tell me.” </p>
<p>"How long are you going to keep this up, Boris? Seriously? What happened in Amsterdam, the guy – " I couldn't even bring myself to say his name, though I hadn't forgotten it, never would – "if this is so normal to you that you're not even a bit shaken up, I mean? What's your life really like then?" </p>
<p>"But I told you, I’ll keep you clean from all that!"</p>
<p>"I'm not thinking about me, Boris, if this is your life then what are the chances of –" I looked around frantically, eyes stinging, "I can't – if you –" why couldn't I just say it?</p>
<p>But he didn't need me to. He cupped my face with one hand, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone and forcing me to look him in the eye.</p>
<p>"I've survived this long and in way worse circumstances, I won't die now.”</p>
<p>"You don't know that!" I pushed his hand away and stood up. "You can't know that! And with what you're doing now, you're only diminishing the already frail chances! I can't – I still have nightmares from the explosion, not to mention from Amsterdam when I thought you – ” Dust in my lungs. Alarm bells clanging. Grit stinging my eyes. Cold. Rain. The never leaving distinct taste of blood. “Do you know what it was like? In that hotel room? Waiting? I was so sure you were dead, Boris, I couldn’t even – Even now I can’t – sometimes I read your texts and I keep seeing this – you, barely standing, like you’ve just come from another shootout, covered in blood and that wound –” I pointed at his arm where the grotesque scar from the bullet lay. Grown monstrous in my imagination, swollen and crimson, always bleeding. How could he not see how fragile it all was? </p>
<p>“And I know - I know it was hard for you too, you really put yourself at risk to get the painting back and I appreciate it, I really do, but fuck Boris. I really thought you were dead and there was nothing I could do, nothing! And it’s not like – I mean I tried to kill myself in there –“ </p>
<p>“What?” He cut me off, eyes wide with fear. I’d completely forgotten I still hadn’t told him about my failed suicide attempt in that fateful city.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter, what matters is –“</p>
<p>“What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Of course it does!” He got up and came over to me, trying to take my hand. </p>
<p>I pulled it away, “I don’t want your fucking pity, I just want this to stop! I can’t not know anymore, where you are, what are you doing, with who, when are you coming back. I can’t just sit around my whole life waiting, I need to know!” I was practically out of breath by that point. Annoyed with my lack of self control, I wiped my eyes hastily and stared at the ground. “I keep thinking you’ll leave. That every time I see you is the last time. Am I right?” I looked up.</p>
<p>“No,” he raised his hand but let it drop to his side again, “you’re not right. Can I?” He reached his hand out again. I nodded. He stepped closer and cupped my face, trying to catch my eye. “Am sorry. Truly. Didn’t think you’d worry like that. But of course I’m not going to leave you. And if my work makes you feel like that, I’ll stop. Figure something else out.” </p>
<p>"No, Boris,” I shook my head, realizing what I’d done, “I shouldn't have – I don't want you to give up your job or lose anything you like. I definitely don't want you to feel like I'm placing you in front of an ultimatum. Because I'm not. Really." </p>
<p>"I know you're not. But it's not an ultimatum, is more of a question of priorities, no?” He let his hands fall from face and instead anchored them on my shoulders, “I mean, I like my job. I like cheating rich people, I like making lots of moneys, being independent and traveling. But I don't love my job. I definitely don't love my job like I love you. There is nothing that I love like I love you."</p>
<p>Silence. Then, without thinking, I placed my hands on his waist and, breathless, kissed him, trying to convey everything I couldn’t find the words for. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Since both of us had had barely any sleep that night, we decided to spend the day in bed, drowsing in each other’s arms. Listening to music from Boris’s phone, one earbud for each, just like we had done as boys. Some new songs Boris had grown to like over the years, but a whole lot of our old favorites, Velvet Underground and old Radiohead songs, reverberations from the only remotely happy time of my childhood after my mother’s death, despite the neglect and malnourishment. Eyes closed, I held tightly to his hand, like it was the only real thing, our heads so close our noses touched. </p>
<p>Slowly, my thoughts grew haloed and unreal, buffering and running into each other, the songs blurring into one nostalgic farrago. Before realizing, I had drifted off to golden desert sleep, dreamless and kind, and only woke up when Boris’s hand left mine.</p>
<p>“Boris?” I asked, still half asleep, eyelids too heavy to lift, slight tremor of panic in my voice. </p>
<p>I could feel him getting up. Instinctively, I reached out my hand. He took it in his and kissed my knuckles. “Just going to bathroom, be back in a bit. Go back to sleep.”</p>
<p>By the time he got back, I was fully awake, twitching with the discarded earbuds that lay on the pillow. He flopped down on the bed with a heavy thud and pulled the earbuds from my hand. </p>
<p>“You awake now?” He tossed the earbuds on the nightstand before leaning over me and pressing a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth. </p>
<p>“I have a client meeting next week,” I said quietly.</p>
<p>“Mh? Postpone it,” he pushed me to my back and climbed atop of me, kissing my neck.</p>
<p>“I can’t. I already tried, she’s only in town for a few days.” I placed my hands on his shoulders in an attempt to push him off so we could talk, but instead, I found myself pulling him closer.</p>
<p>“Cancel it then,” he moved down to my chest.</p>
<p>“It’s a really big sale. We could use one.”</p>
<p>He lifted his head, brow furrowed. “Why? You got so much money from the painting.”</p>
<p>“I had to buy back all the changelings so there’s actually not that much left. Not enough to cancel a meeting like this at least.”</p>
<p>“How much do you need? I will give it. Heck, I’ll even buy the thing you wanna sell her. But you have to be quick! I’m a very picky customer!” </p>
<p>I laughed. “What would you even do with Duncan Phyfe side chairs?”</p>
<p>“Side chairs, you say? You convinced me! I’ll buy twenty!” He smiled winningly and stooped down to kiss me.</p>
<p>“Boris,” I made a half-assed attempt to crawl out from underneath him, “I’m serious, I need that sale. I have to go back to New York.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to!”</p>
<p>“I do! I mean,” I added, when he didn’t say anything except for a small humph and stared at me disappointedly, “I appreciate your job offer, honestly, but I have a job. And I actually kinda like it so..”</p>
<p>He rolled off me with a disgruntled sigh and lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling, unsatisfied frown on his face.</p>
<p>“You know I have to go back at some point. Are you, you know, gonna stay here or –?”</p>
<p>He turned his head to look at me, “I need to meet some guys but they keep changing the times. Very annoying. But I’ll talk to Myriam, maybe we can send someone else.”</p>
<p>“So?”</p>
<p>“So?”</p>
<p>“You’re really making me say it, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>He smiled cheekily. “Say what? I just wanna know what you’re thinking.”</p>
<p>I sighed. “Are you gonna come back to New York with me?”</p>
<p>Quickly, he turned and gave me a smack on the lips. “Yes!” Bright smile – “but I can’t come next week, it’s too soon, I still have some other things I need to do. But I’ll join you later.”</p>
<p>“Yeah?” Without meaning to, it struck me that I’d heard that one before.</p>
<p>“I will! Promise! Didn’t take any paintings this time, I swear,” he laughed, holding out his palms.</p>
<p>“You better mean it.” I nestled as close to him as I could, melting into one on a hot summer day. </p>
<p>“I do,” he pressed a kiss on my forehead. I could feel his lips forming a soft <em> I love you </em>on my skin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much to Sofa for helping me with the Russian translations! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next day, after a sunny breakfast where we couldn’t stop smiling, we went on a long walk around the city. Through Petrogradskaya – or Petrogradka as Boris called it – past the numerous parks and <em> sads, </em> stopping at a small cafe for a cold glass of <em> kvass </em> and puffy pastries, that we got a discount on thanks to Boris’s endless charm. All the way past Peter and Paul fortress and across the wide, imposing Neva, sparkling in the sun. Boris had to practically drag me away from the Admiralty - beautiful, bright yellow Art Nouveau building ( <em> Come on, Potter! Is just a house for rich people, I wanna get ice cream </em> ), through the park filled with wilted mauve lilacs and pink and white peonies in full bloom, out to the spine of St. Petersburg – Nevsky Prospekt. A long broad street, brimming with life: large tour groups led by strict, no bullshit attitude guides, red flags bobbing over the crowds, wealthy looking business men with massive Rolexes hurrying past everyone else in their long stride, art school students smoking in the alleyways, long bohemian scarves wrapper around the waist, classy old ladies with wide pearl white hats walking in small flocks like dignified turtle doves, shabby old men, faces dark brown and coarse from the sun, sitting on the street in rags. Groups of tourists and locals streamed past us on either side, chatter and smiles, Russian, Ukrainian, Chinese, Italian, English and a multitude of other languages I couldn’t distinguish. Every nook and corner having the potential to trigger a crippling anxiety attack if it wasn’t for Boris navigating me through this madness: his hand on my elbow to keep us together as we dodged a group of overweight German pensioners eagerly photographing Stroganov Palace, on the small of my back as we crossed the busy street surrounded by a boisterous mob of Spanish school kids, grabbing onto my wrist to pull me through the large Dutch family bargaining with the souvenir shop keeper, slinging his arm around my shoulder when I lagged behind staring at the pillars of Kazan cathedral. He bought us ice cream from a small shabby stand in the middle of Zelenyi bridge where the middle aged vendor had a burning cigarette in one hand while she scooped in the freezer for our ice creams with the other. Boris walking down the street like he had lived there his whole life: talking to every babushka and homeless person he saw, petting stray cats and dogs, chatting with a group of teenagers who tried to bum us for cigarettes about the Russian educational system. Slowly, I spelled out Cyrillic street signs and shop names to him: <em> Tokio city - gorodskie restorany, tarelka stolovaya, russkie cruizy, spagetteria, ortopedicheskie salony, dom uzhasa, konditerskaya, kofeinya ficsirovannyh cen. </em>Boris laughed at my pronunciation with such sincere merriment, eagerly correcting it and providing translations, that I forgot all the mayhem around us and only focused on finding the next sign to read out.</p><p>“<em>Gorod-geroi Leningrad </em>,” I read slowly and loudly as Boris talked to an elderly woman selling matryoshkas behind a makeshift stall in front of a metro station on Ploschad Vosstaniya.</p><p>“Yes, good!” He turned from the lady to look at me, “less emphasis on the r. Mrs. Malinova has been telling me about her daughter, Varvara. She got into that fancy art school here, you know the one? She’s really good at painting, she says. You want to meet her? Talk about art? Maybe she can paint you another <em> ptichka </em>? Or maybe is better if not, you know the real one too well. But still, it’s a difficult school to get into. You know me, I’m not much for formal education but, hey, if she likes it?” He shrugged in his philosophical way.</p><p>“Yeah,” I turned to the old lady, “<em> Pozdravljaem </em>?”</p><p>The woman’s face lit up under her blue headscarf, she started smiling and talking too fast for me, repeating <em> spasibo </em>at least ten times and something I thought sounded like bar or bartender and that she had a small business or small something at least, to which Boris smiled brightly and a bit bashfully it seemed. She ended up giving me a bright red matryoshka free of charge and a warm babushka hug for the both of us.</p><p>“Did she say she has a small business? Or a small bar?” I asked Boris, after we had said our goodbyes to Mrs. Malinova and walked on.</p><p>“Eh? Where did you get that?” Boris laughed.</p><p>“Isn’t that what she said? <em> Paren? </em> And <em> milyj </em> means small, right?”</p><p>“No-no, you’re confusing <em> malyj </em> with <em> milyj </em> . <em> Malyj </em> is small and <em> milyj </em>means cute. She said I have a cute boyfriend,” he explained and, to my utter surprise, blushed. </p><p>“What?” Then: “Oh,” as I realized that meant me and suddenly I didn’t know where to look or what to do with my hands and the sun was bright and incredibly warm and an old man with a broom smiled at me and I don’t think I have ever seen so many beautiful people as I did on that street. </p><p> </p><p>We were both starving after the long walk so we dined in a small Armenian restaurant before heading back to the apartment. I was exhausted from the crowds, which Boris could see, so he proposed we stay in for the night. We watched <em> Ljubov i golubi </em> on Boris’s laptop and, after the movie finished, stayed on the sofa in peaceful silence, sharing a cigarette, legs intertwined in the middle. Boris seemed deep in thought, absentmindedly running his hand over the backrest and letting out a contemplative whiff of smoke from the side of his mouth. The cigarette loosely hanging between his middle and ring finger. </p><p>"Are you still married?" I asked suddenly, my eyes on his hand.</p><p>"Mh?" he aroused from his thoughts and looked at me puzzled. "Yah." </p><p>"But you're not wearing a ring." </p><p>"I told you, Astrid and I have an arrangement." </p><p>"Do you love her?" It came out before I could stop myself. </p><p>He lifted an eyebrow in amusement and smiled. "You're jealous."</p><p>"Shut up and answer the question." </p><p>"Hmm, I think I do. I mean, she's really great, you should meet her sometime. I think you'd get along." </p><p>I scoffed at that. </p><p>"And she's very open minded, maybe that's something you can learn from her.” he kicked my shin. </p><p>"Doesn't it bother you then? That she's seeing someone else?" I still remembered how he had glared at every guy who even looked at Kotku’s direction. </p><p>"No, not anymore. It would have some time ago, yeah, but now?" he shrugged. "I guess we have grown apart. I mean, at first we were really close, together all the time and what times we had! We got a summer house in Öland, small red one, you know the ones they have in Sweden? On weekends we went to Malmö or the mountains sometimes to ski. Well, she would ski, I sat inside in front of the fireplace, warming my toes, ha!" </p><p>I caught myself calculating the approximate time Boris and Astrid must have started seeing each other based on the stories he'd told me. What was I doing during all those great times? Sitting in bleak lecture halls, isolated from my surroundings? Trying to sort out Hobie’s stack of debts? Snorting oxys all by myself in Welty’s old damp bedroom? </p><p>"But at some point we started seeing less of each other and then she got pregnant with this guy from her dad's organization," Boris continued, "and her dad was pissed, I mean, proper psycho pissed. The guy disappeared shortly after, they said he didn't want anything to do with the baby and fled but I'm pretty sure her dad had him killed. Crazy bastard. But Astrid was now in a sticky position, see? Is not good image for the likes of her dad. Single mother daughter? And used to be so promising athlete? Very hard times for her. By then we weren’t together anymore but we were still friends so I wanted to help her. And the people I was working with at the time had their own chickens to pick and needed her dad's help. So, long story short, we got married, which calmed her dad down and I could take her away from him and the twins are officially mine," he finished and stubbed out the cigarette, before stretching himself and glancing out the window at the sound of someone yelling on the street way below us. It sounded like a domestic dispute, male and female voices mixed together, juicy curse words floating up to our room. </p><p>"But you still love her?" I finally asked. </p><p>He turned to look at me and humphed, drawing his brows together. </p><p>"Why is this bothering you so much, mh? It's possible to love more than one person at a time, you know. And I told you, you’re different." </p><p>"Everyone's different, what the hell does that even mean?" I spitted out.</p><p>"Mh, you know. With my girlfriends and Astrid, we were close and in love and everything but that's what they were. Girlfriends. You're a lot more than that. Well, first of all, you're not really a <em> girl </em>friend," he laughed but stopped quickly, when I started to get up to leave. He grabbed my hand and pulled me back on the sofa to sit next to him. "Wait wait! Let me finish. What I mean is, you're so much more, you know that.”</p><p>"But do you still see her? You said you used to be close." </p><p>"Well, no. Not so much anymore. Maybe once a year? For the kids. We both have other lives now." </p><p>"You say that a lot, you know," I said, looking past him and out the window at the pale moon rising in the sky. It was still too light outside to make out its proper shape. </p><p>"What?"  </p><p>"When you love someone. You say how they're the love of your life, there's no one like them, you've never been so in love. But then sometime later you hardly see them or have forgotten about them entirely. You said that about Kotku, about that Katya, about your wife. And me." </p><p>“Katya?” Boris frowned. “What Katya?”</p><p>I turned from the window and stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. Katya? Your big love? Nothing? Honestly? Your one true love, the one you’d die for but you lost her?” He was still staring at me like I was talking about some ghost I’d seen. “The girl whose name you have tattooed on your arm! The rose one!” </p><p>“Ha!” Boris let out a surprised laugh, “the rose one! You think it says Katya? Oh you sweet <em> glupi! </em>” he threw his head back, chuckling – “You mean to tell me we’ve spent all these nights together and you still haven’t read that tattoo?” </p><p>“Well, no,” I felt abashed and confused over his joyful reaction, like it was some inside joke I wasn’t getting. “I don’t wanna stare at some other person’s name when I’m – you know, with you!” </p><p>Boris shook his head affectionately, “ah <em> tupitsa, </em> you really need to start looking at things” – and took his shirt off. He turned slightly sideways so I could get a good look at his arm. The tattoo was still where I remembered. I had barely looked at it after the first time he showed it to me in the bar, averting my eyes every time it came too close, like it was some forbidden area for me, a part of Boris I wasn't allowed in on. Thorn-pierced rose with the Cyrillic letters in the middle. I looked closer. </p><p>"Fyodor," I read, unable to believe my eyes. </p><p>"Yes, <em> duračok </em>," Boris said, rapping the side of my head with his knuckles, “you’re the one big love, you’re the one I’d die for! Even though you’re so thick you can’t even read your own name,” he laughed.</p><p>“Wow,” I stared at the tattoo, still dazed. “I‘m an idiot.”</p><p>“You are but is okay. I still love you.” He bit his lower lip in amusement and tilted his head. </p><p>“But why didn’t you tell me? Why make up the story in the first place?”</p><p>“Why-why,” Boris frowned, “how could I have told you back then? You were engaged! And in love with the redhead. And so grim and sad, nothing like you were as a boy. Well, no, you were grim and sad back then as well, but this was worse. Back then you had so much warmth in your eyes but there? On the street? I could hardly see it. Is like you were dead on the inside, no life left, empty shell walking. I was so happy to see you again but this broke my heart. And I knew I couldn’t tell you how I felt, it was too soon, you would have run away! Maybe hit me first and then run away, but I had to tell you! I had to get it out! Had to let you know! So I said it was someone else. Made up a name hoping that maybe you’d realize it was you. Remember what we had. See that it could never be anyone else but you.” </p><p>“Oh. Right,” I said quietly, feeling exceedingly stupider by the minute. How could I have ever doubted him? </p><p>“Well, I guess now is as good a time as any,” he said and got up.</p><p>“What?” I asked confused, but he was already in the entry, fishing something out of his coat pocket. </p><p>"I know it’s a day early, but," he said, sitting back down next to me and hiding his hand behind his back, "Happy birthday!" </p><p>He handed me a set of keys held together by a keychain with <em> The Goldfinch </em>hanging on it. Miniature version of the painting in a small glass square, like the ones sold in museum gift shops.</p><p>"Right. My birthday," I said, looking into the familiar sharp eyes of the finch with a mixture of nostalgia and bittersweet reunion. I'd completely forgotten about my birthday. "What's this?"</p><p>"It's keys to all my flats," he explained, leaning closer and pointing out all the different keys. "This one's for Antwerp, this one's for this place, this one's for Stockholm and this one's for LA. Now, whenever I'm away and you miss me or want to check up on me, you can come to any of these places, unannounced, and let yourself in." </p><p>"I don't wanna check up on you," I protested. </p><p>"I know, I know, but here you go anyways. They're your home now too. And this, as you know," he pointed to the finch, "is our little friend." </p><p>"Yeah, I remember," I said quietly, feeling each key separately between my fingers. Antwerp, St Petersburg, Stockholm, LA. Anywhere he went, I could go too. I realized I still hadn't gotten a key for him for my New York apartment and felt bad. Here I was, demanding to know everything about his past and current relationships without giving anything back. </p><p>"What do you think?" He nudged my knee with his and looked at me with his dark humorous eyes, soft smile on his lips. </p><p>I wanted to say something but I didn’t know how. I wanted to let him know how much he meant to me, how much better he had made me and my life, how much warmer and brighter. How many times he had saved me, literally and otherwise. Dragging me off the road, back home from the desert, pulling me under the covers after crippling nightmares. Getting the painting back, helping me understand the world and its crooked ways. But also in my dreams and blurry subconsciousness. How the memory of him, his name on my tongue in the early morning hours where nothing was quite real except for the foggy remembrance of how I’d felt watching his back when he slept next to me in our small bed in Vegas had sustained me, even when I didn’t want to admit it. How the confusion and self loathing my feelings for him had brought me, the substance abuse and the near death experiences, everything that had happened with the painting, his bluntness and occasional insensitivity, and his other numerous faults, how they were nothing, nothing compared to the simple moment of him sitting next to me on that small sofa, bare chested and loving, an embodiment of pure, sincere feeling. No fuss and glitter, no ties, no strings attached. Bone-deep, instinctive love. There really was no other way and, for the first time in my life maybe, definitely for the first time after my mother died, I had a fleeting sense of how blessed I was. I could sit here and love him and he loved me and we both knew that nothing else mattered. </p><p>But I didn’t know how to say all that so, instead, I pressed our foreheads together and closed my eyes. In the ensuing darkness, where the world consisted of no one else but him and me, I let out a quiet <em> I love you </em>and I knew he had heard everything.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I've read the bar and the car scene in the book so so many times and I have really specific reasons why I think Astrid is real and Katya is not. It's a bit too long to explain here but let me know if you're interested in hearing my thoughts either here or on tumblr :) </p><p>Thanks so much to Sofa for helping me with the Russian translations! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter was supposed to come out ages ago but then life happened :/ anyways, pretend it's end of June/beginning of July and it's Theo's birthday!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next morning I woke up early for some reason with Boris still sleeping next to me. Golden light gliding in from the open window. Cotton white sheets, delicate lace curtains swaying in the wind, Boris’s pitch black curls splayed out on the white pillow. In the early hours, under the cover of city half asleep, mellow light and firm brick walls, a foreign world where no one knew me passing by outside the window, I allowed my eyes to wander on him. Long dark eyelashes lightly fluttering with the rhythm of sleep. Faint summer freckles on his cheeks and nose. The rise and fall of his chest with each calming breath. His warm weight against me and his boney feet in between mine. Looking at him I could feel everything in the world fall into its rightful place. Leaves sprouting in spring and turning yellow in autumn. Zebras and wildebeest migrating across Tanzania every year. The friendly coffee shop clerk calling you by your name as you pick up your order. Mississippi river running through the country and grizzly bears roaming the meadows in Alaska. Something about him keeping it all afloat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t know how much time had passed when he stirred and opened his eyes, catching me staring at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See something interesting?” he smiled and, with a wide yawn, stretched his arm out to rest on my waist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All I could do was smile and hide my face in the pillow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed and leaned closer to kiss me on the cheek, “Happy birthday by the way. You’re getting old.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turned to glare at him and jabbed him in his bare chest, “You’re older than me, asshole.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t count. You have an old soul.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck? You a mystic now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha! No, I just like to keep an open mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s next? You're gonna tell me you believe in reincarnation? Because then we need to break up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris shrugged with a smile, “Well, you’ll never know, could be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you were Muslim?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed, “I’m everything and nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So a Buddhist?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To define is to limit, no? And it’s too early for religious talk, we haven’t even had breakfast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I moved closer to rest my forehead against his chest and wrapped my arm around him. “You should cook for me, it is my birthday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what do you want for your present? Mh?” he ruffled my hair, “Food poisoning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would have thought you’ve improved your cooking skills by now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Afraid not. I can make you cereal but that’s about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want french toast,” I mumbled into his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s make french toast then! Shouldn't be that hard.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabbed my phone from the nightstand and started searching for a recipe, his arms around my neck, his chin resting on top of my head. Quietly murmuring phrases like </span>
  <em>
    <span>french toast, yes, yes, accept cookies, jesus I don’t wanna read all that about your dad, just gimme the recipe,</span>
  </em>
  <span> while I still lay buried into his chest, eyes closed, his heartbeats thrumming against my forehead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha!” He shouted after a while, “It’s easy! Can’t believe we haven’t made this before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh?” I rolled away from him and sat up, “Let’s go then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” he handed me the phone and, turning his back to me, pulled the blanket over his head. “Call me when it’s ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stared at him in disbelief. “What the fuck, Boris? No way, you’re making it with me,” I grabbed him by the shoulder to turn him around but he wouldn’t budge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am too tired. I already did the searching.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Boris.” I got up and dressed but he was still laying in bed, pretending to snore. I walked up to him and in a swift movement pulled the blanket off to which he gasped in horror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Kurwa! </span>
  </em>
  <span>I thought you loved me!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off, come on, get up,” I held out my hand to him. He took it and, before I could even blink, pulled me back in bed, all his sleepiness gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I fell atop of him, painfully hitting my chin against his boney shoulder: “Ow, fuck!” I kicked his feet and tried to roll away but he yanked my arm and pulled me back, trying to get me in a headlock. We wrestled in relative silence for a minute or two, occasional shriek and subdued laughter, breaths heavy, before painfully digging his fingers into the spot underneath my shoulder blade he managed to climb atop of me, locking me on the bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Change of plans,” he smiled and blew the hair out of his eye before leaning down to kiss me. I tried to crawl out from underneath him but I could hardly move with his knees tightly around my hips and elbows leaning on each side of my head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Idiot. Get off.” I stabbed his side so hard he yelped. In reflex, he brought his arm to his side and I pushed him off me. He fell on his back with a heavy thud and a grunt and lay there, rubbing the spot on his head he had hit on the headboard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Serves you right,” I said and sat up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh tu zh yobanyi tu nahyi.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I burst out laughing and ruffled his hair. “You’re fine, let’s go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mumbling nonsense about domestic abuse, Boris finally got up and we went to the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Boris read from the phone, leaning against the counter, his sweatpants hanging dangerously low, biting into a stale Dorito from the pack that had been lying on the counter since before I arrived, “we need two eggs, milk, bread, sugar and maybe cinnamon. Do we have butter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opened the fridge and stared at its sad contents. “Boris, we don’t have any of these things. There’s only two bottles of beer, chunk of cheese and,” I picked up a dodgy jar from the back and checked the expiry date, “expired jar of olives.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Those are Myriam’s.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. You hate olives,” I closed the fridge door and looked at him, “now what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now we go shopping!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We headed down to the small corner shop at the end of the street and got back with all the necessary ingredients, plus six more bottles of beer, two cucumbers, bag of apples, two boxes of tea, a huge violet meringue cake for the evening and a pink kid’s birthday candle with the number six (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Because you act like a six year old</span>
  </em>
  <span>, said Boris). We made a mess of the cooking: broken egg on kitchen floor, Boris sneezing from the cinnamon he accidentally inhaled sniffing the packet, droplets of batter all over the stove. Thanks to my fretting we under cooked the first batch of toast and severely burnt the second one after we started making out by the kitchen counter. The bread ended up being either soggy or burnt and even the piles of sugar Boris poured on it didn’t make it taste any better, but we ate the lot, leaving greasy fingerprints on the kitchen counter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After breakfast we decided to drive out of the city for the day. It was another brilliant sunny day, cloudless, record high temperatures, the sun flaring in the crisp blue sky and burning the highway beneath us. Bright yellow rapeseed fields, groves of young birch trees and rows of colorful </span>
  <em>
    <span>dachas</span>
  </em>
  <span> hurrying past the car window. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We went to Pavlovsk where we walked around the park, quoting </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Idiot </span>
  </em>
  <span>to each other at random, and to some lake that’s name I couldn’t pronounce. After a light lunch in a local cafe in one of the small villages surrounding the city, we drove further from Petersburg, away from the main road and towards dark, cool pine forests. Boris wanted to show me the lake he and Toly had once caught a 500 lb catfish from and turned on a small forest road that looked like an entry to a horror movie. Dim light, archaic branches stretching towards us, clawing the car windows. We jolted on the road for well over half an hour, but couldn’t find any lakes or signs leading to lakes or people to ask directions from. Only rows and rows of pine trees, spread out in an impressive phalanx, deep green moss crawling out underneath as far as the eye could see. An occasional small bird and one startled roe deer. Eventually, we decided to abandon the lake plan and, leaving the car on an old driveway to a deserted farm, went for a walk instead. We strolled around aimlessly in the forest, with no regard to paths, no sound but the birds and our own voices, talking and laughing, around us. After a while, we reached the edge of the forest and arrived at a secluded meadow, lush with thick bright green grass and blooming wildflowers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Simultaneously, we stopped and for a moment just gawked in silence at the small piece of Eden we had accidentally stumbled upon. Then, Boris let out a wild, jubilant cry, grabbed off his shoes and ran towards the middle of the field. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon, Potter!” He shouted over his shoulder, waving at me with his arms in the air. “Keep up!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stood at the edge of the field and watched him twirl around until he fell down laughing. Warm summer wind caressing my face and playing with my hair; sunlight streaming through green translucent leaves.The sound of crickets and bees, small birds flying in and out of the sea of green. The tall grass swayed gently, here and there sprinkled with cornflowers so characteristically blue to make Vermeer gasp with delight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Potter?” I heard Boris’s voice from somewhere among the thick hay. “Where are you? Come here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I took my shoes off and tried to find him by his voice, the grass prickling my bare feet. He was lying on his back, eyes closed, among a thicket of wildflowers. Tall goldenrods and Queen Anne’s lace crowning his head, white clover buttons and purple foxgloves stroking his hands, a small cluster of thistles gathered at his feet. I poked his side with my foot. He opened his eyes and squinted at the bright sunlight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come,” he patted the ground next to him and I lay down. Eyes closed, I breathed in the warm summer serenity. Chaffinch and starling, warblers and blackbirds - a choir of the unfettered around us. Blindly, I turned my hand and reached for his that lay on the ground between us. I ran my thumb over the back, slowly and deliberately, his skin warm to the touch. Rough knuckles, counting the tendons: one, here’s the second, third. The small birthmark just above the wrist, crooked scar on the side of his thumb. Calloused spots in his palm: one underneath the thumb, the other between the middle and ring finger. Reading the lines on his palm with my fingertips, before slowly, slowly lacing our fingers together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We lay there, side by side as we’d done in the desert all those lifetimes ago, coarse grass like grains of sand beneath us, heat of the sun radiating through our worn down bodies. Light years away from anyone else. Running to the playground in the dead of night to hide from our dads, empty sand walls and the smell of dog piss on living room carpet. Boris gliding along me on the old skateboard we had found in one of the foreclosed houses, laughing and shouting Russian swear words down the dark deserted street, half-empty bottle of vodka under his arm, Popchik trailing behind us. Getting fucked up on the swings, vodka, weed, glue, E - anything we could get our hands on, only to wake up in the morning with a reeling hangover, finding unexpected puddles of puke around the house. Skipping school to lay huddled on the floor, shivering from the air conditioning with empty stomachs, hair damp and reeking with chlorine water. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But we’re stronger now,” Boris suddenly said and gave my hand a squeeze, “and better fed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opened my eyes in surprise and turned to face him, but seeing the look in his eyes drowned the question on my tongue. Of course he had felt the same, thought exactly what I had been thinking. I smiled instead and brought our hands to my mouth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We stayed on that field for hours, sitting on hay bales, talking until the birds and bugs started seeing us as one of their own. At one point Boris was telling me about the time he went back to New Guinea a few years ago, twirling a straw of hay between his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...and when I got to the village I had stayed in as a kid? You won’t believe it! Turned into a city! So many people and construction sites! Everywhere I looked: people and cars, cars and people! Always building something, it took me forever to find the mosque. But, of course, Bami and all the other guys were long gone, never found out what happened to them. But I found the beach he used to take me to! Luckily that was still the same, those vultures hadn’t destroyed that yet. It was this small bay through the forest and past the cliffs, remember I told you? Bami took me there for praying sometimes, told me stories afterwards, old stories, To-Kabinana and To-Karvuvu. I loved those stories! Still remember them, you know! I slept on the beach that night, well, didn’t sleep really, kept staring at the sky, the stars were so bright! Just like in Vegas, remember? Bet you don’t get stars like that in New York!” He smiled with a distant look in his eyes. “I kept thinking that. You. Wishing you’d be there, see the stars. You would have loved it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I bumped my shoulder with his: “we can still go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned to me and, throwing away the straw, frowned. “Do you like New York?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” I asked, after a confused pause.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you should come live with me somewhere else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” I said, without thinking, and then: “what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not happy. Let me change that. You’ve hardly ever been anywhere else and I think New York makes you unhappy sometimes. It’s too crowded and loud, too many memories about your mother and childhood. Too many people you wish you never knew.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not –“ I stopped, baffled. “I haven’t really thought about it like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No? I think you need some place quiet and peaceful, somewhere no one knows you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was weird how right those words sounded, as if he’d taken them from my head though I hadn’t even known they existed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about my job?” I asked tentatively. “And Popchik?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can take him with us! It doesn’t have to be for good, we can still live in New York just not all the time. Think about it. You’ve lived in New York basically your whole life, almost thirty years! You have hardly ever left the place except for Vegas or Amsterdam or your work trips which were hardly a holiday. Don’t you think you deserve some change of scenery? I think it will do you good, really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stared at him in silence, trying to process this new possibility. How had I never thought about leaving New York?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least think about it?” He continued. He had certainly given it a lot of thought. “You don’t need to worry about money, I still have plenty left from our</span>
  <em>
    <span> ptichka</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We could live in Europe maybe? You liked Antwerp, no? And it has a lot of art and old stuff! Or we could go somewhere else, anywhere you want! Vienna is very nice, lots of culture, or Rome or Bern! Wherever you want! Doesn’t even have to be Europe!” He took my hand, “What do you think? Come with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I said, dazed by the unexpected ray of light from the bright future I hadn’t known I had a chance at. “I mean, I have to talk to Hobie. And there’s Popchik and work. It’s gonna take some time to figure it all out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That can all be sorted somehow. But yes? We’ll go?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I said faintly and smiled at the wave of relief on his face. “Yeah,” more decidedly this time – “I’ll come with you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By then the wind had risen, warm and heavy with approaching rain, dark clouds gathering on the horizon. Without noticing, the light had grown crepuscular around us.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris smiled and, taking my hand, jumped of the hay bale and pulled me with him. “I think is gonna rain, we should better get to the car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We were halfway across the woods when it started raining, a heavy summer downpour we ran through, stumbling on pine roots and laughing at God knows what. In the car Boris shook his head vigorously like a wet dog, splashing water all over me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop!” I laughed, “you’re worse than Popchik!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed and we started driving back towards the city. I clicked through the radio channels trying to find some decent music. Talk shows in Russian, Shostakovich’s 4th I wasn’t in the mood for, upbeat pop music I skipped over quickly, more talk shows, something that sounded like the news and then –</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The sun is up, the sky is blue</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We locked eyes. Boris’s surprised </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ha! </span>
  </em>
  <span>“No way,” I said in disbelief, while Boris inhaled theatrically.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Prudence</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” He let out, so loud I started laughing again, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t you come out to play!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Come on, Potter, sing with me!” He was laughing too, excitedly shaking my shoulder, “Is fate!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Prudence, open up your eyes</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Prudence, see the sunny skies</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We sang to each other, loudly enough to deafen the heavy rain beating the car windows, wipers battling the torrents so fast the windscreen turned into a misty gray blur. But we didn’t care. The road was wide and empty and we were going fast, </span>
  <em>
    <span>greet the brand new day, </span>
  </em>
  <span>fast enough to fly off the road and straight into the glorious burning sky, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s beautiful and so are you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>up, up, up, the ground growing small and insignificant. Birch trees nearly bent to the ground from the wind, leaves and branches twirling in the air and hitting the glass. Driving through potholes and rain puddles the size of small lakes, grandiose waves flying off the side of the car. Dark end-of-world clouds fuming in the sky, omnipotent and ruthless, but then, occasionally, a small gap and there it was: bright, dazzling ray of sun. Breaking through the clouds like cathedral light and, in an instant, the world lights up – verdant pastures and lavish woodlands the brightest golden green you have ever seen. The road glistens, raindrops sparkle in a myriad of color as they glide down the windscreen; so brief and pure you wouldn’t even believe it existed, if it wasn’t for the light that had burnt itself inside your eyelids. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Halfway to the city, we stopped at a gas station on the side of the road for burgers and Pepsi. By then the rain had faded off into a drizzle and we ate in the car, parked in the middle of the empty lot, telling each other stories and joking around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“..and this is why you should never attempt to piss in dark woods while high off your ass,” Boris chuckled, grabbing a handful of fries from the paper plate on my lap and stuffing them into his already half full mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow. You haven’t changed a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No and you love it,” he grinned, blotch of ketchup at the corner of his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dork,” I threw a napkin at his face, but couldn’t stop smiling myself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The next day was my last one in Petersburg. It was funny how quickly I had grown accustomed to waking up next to him, just over the course of few days. Reaching for him as soon as I woke up, eyes closed, brain clogged with sleep. And how torturous it would be in the next upcoming weeks back in New York without him, reaching for empty space. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We stayed in bed for the better half of the morning, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together, running my thumb slowly over his cheekbone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s your last day,” Boris broke the silence between us, his voice distant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t remind me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I meant to say. “Come with me,” slipped quietly over my lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opened my eyes. Up close you could see that his eyes weren’t black at all, only very very dark brown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll follow you. Promise. I only need to stay here for a week or two.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have to sort something out,” flash of darkness in his eyes - “Some punks are trying to steal our supplier. They’re barely old enough to drink, ha! Fucking amateurs. We gotta show them they’re messing with the wrong people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But do you have to do that? Can’t you send someone else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And have them think I’m a coward? No, thank you. Have to teach these assholes a lesson.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just a meeting for now. Doesn't have to get violent unless they make it so, I’m perfectly willing to settle this peacefully.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, stop. Don’t tell me anything more. I’m trying to forget you’re running a drug cartel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is not a cartel! I have a perfectly legitimate business. Only I also have another business that’s not so legitimate,” he laughed but I couldn’t join him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please come with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo.” His voice quiet. I looked at him and knew if I’d ask him one more time he’d say yes and come with me. But then he’d spend all his time on the phone or his laptop, trying to run whatever the hell operation he had remotely and I’d feel guilty. So instead I kissed him, saying everything I needed him to know without words. Kissing his neck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Come with me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The small birthmark on his shoulder. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Live with me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Needle marks on his forearm. Blue Star of David. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wake up next to me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> His palm, the tips of his fingers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Go grocery shopping with me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The scar on his hip bone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cook dinners with me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The spaces between his ribs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do laundry with me. Take showers with me. Watch TV with me. Read with me. Walk through the city with me. Take a taxi with me. See your friends with me. Laugh with me. Cry with me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The scar from the bullet on his bicep. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grow old with me. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So we made the most of our last day. We ordered take away pelmeni and blini for lunch and dinner, Boris climbing out of the bed and hurrying across the room to answer the door for the delivery guy, wearing nothing but a pair of my boxers and my ragged cardigan tied around his shoulders like an ascetic Hindu monk. Spilling hot tea on the sheets from laughing so hard over my stories about Popchik’s initial encounters with city life. Making out on the sofa, listening to music and watching funny videos from his phone, curled up in each others arms, his cheek pressed to my chest - all the fun we missed out on as teenagers. Empty food cartons and mugs with cold tea on the floor, heap of dirty clothes piled atop of my suitcase. Sunlight slowly ebbing away, shadows growing longer while we stayed in bed, no space between us. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometime after midnight we walked to the University Embankment to see the raising of the drawbridges. Wordlessly, I thanked the crowds of tourists that pressed us together, shoulder against shoulder, arm against arm. Small blue and white lights from the bridges reflecting off the black Neva like blazing stars. Swaying desert sky. Under the cover of darkness, surrounded by excited tourists eagerly staring at the bridges, music and indistinct chatter, I let Boris take my hand. I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the river and ships, but saw nothing but sparks and stars. Heavy tranquil waves crashing on the embankment as massive cargo ships slowly drifted by, whoos and aahs, flash of cameras, Boris’s hand warm in mine. At one point, I could no longer resist the temptation and glanced at him: soft smile on his lips, ship lights glistening in his dark eyes. I smiled and clutched firmer to his hand. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This fic now has a <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2VGzzJHuVtouQmd90pT21P?si=En329EU0S9y9InP7fL-jEg">playlist!</a> I'll be adding more songs as the story develops so if you like it keep an eye on it :) Also, check out my <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pHm1e4H2TqNT4He8kb9JE?si=yRm0lGHHQRyou8cnW-OIOg">boreo playlist</a> and <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4R13jqTxo7fxA6lhUspt2d?si=CNYi6Xc3RhyYZC1SNpCwbg">classical Theo playlist</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here we go again!! part 3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Never regret thy fall, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>O Icarus of the fearless flight</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For the greatest tragedy of them all </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Is never to feel the burning light.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>- Oscar Wilde</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The weeks between coming back from Petersburg and him following me to New York had a sense of emptiness, forlorn misery to them. Like returning home from a long holiday and before settling back to the old routine everything feels dislodged for a day or two. Or, and in a weird way even more accurately, like the time in Vegas when Boris first started seeing Kotku and I didn’t see him for days, except for English where he turned up late and even more raggedy looking than he had living with me. Those days the only ones I talked to were the stoner kids hanging around the Strip or Popchik, squealing so loud at the sight of me when I got home from school that I almost burst out crying. Sick of sitting home alone - empty cabinets and shallow TV light, nothing to watch but porn and the same two DVDs we owned - I used to take Popchik and go to the playground to sniff glue or smoke weed or sometimes just sit and stare at the desert. Long, seasonless afternoons drifted by as I watched the clouds grow, gather and disperse, turn from white to golden orange, pink, magenta to gradually silver as the sky got darker. Dragging my feet in the sand until the tip of my Oxfords tore, revealing a lonely dust-covered deep blue sock. On those nights a sense of fatigue would fall over me, a heaviness that loomed above me and sank deep into my soul, like any moment I might grow too heavy and dip off the swing, fall face down into the sand, and never get up again. Glasses askew, sand in my mouth. How long would it take for someone to notice, I used to wonder in a completely impersonal manner. At least a week for my dad and Xandra, but even then I highly doubt they would have done anything about it before two weeks had passed by which the coyotes would have devoured me long ago. Boris? Would he worry if I didn’t show up for English one day? If I wasn’t in my room, reading comic books or leafing through </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Masterworks of Dutch Painting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, stomach down on my bed? Would he think to come to the playground? Most of the time I was sure he would, but other times I began to doubt - maybe whatever it was we had was somehow bigger and more important in my head. Maybe he had just needed a distraction, and now that Kotku had appeared, I wasn’t as interesting anymore. Maybe for him, I was just another guest in his life, another fellow sufferer he was bound to say farewell to when the time came. Or, more likely, leave quietly without a fuss. Why did it matter so much?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back in New York, I had the same sense of emptiness I had had back then, something heavy pressing down on me, fogging my mind. Every year I’d sit at my desk and watch the bed of roses across the street from the shop bud and blossom and wilt, turning into brown friable corpses, cut down by street maintenance before budding, blossoming, and wilting all over again, leaving behind a trail of ghosts. And so do humans. And so does everything living. Constant change, constant process. I could feel time slipping away, all moments past and present becoming distant and meaningless. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On one of those afternoons, I was standing at the back of an auction room at Christie’s, completely ignoring the bidding and the snarky comments of Arman, a young dealer on the scene who had latched himself on me like his guru of antiques (for reasons unclear to me since I hadn’t been particularly friendly with him), trying and failing to shake off a sudden unexplained wave of melancholy. Boris was supposed to arrive at JFK the following morning, which I was happy about, but he hadn’t responded to any of my texts that day. Not that it was anything unusual but I couldn’t help feeling lost and disappointed. Absentmindedly, I fumbled with the set of keys for my apartment I had had made for Boris and had carried around in my pocket ever since I picked them up from the locksmith’s three days ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Distinguished family my ass, the father was a drunkard, everyone knows that,” Arman sneered, leaning uncomfortably close to me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I took two small inconspicuous steps away from him. “Is that so,” I said, staring straight ahead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, haven’t you heard?” he continued, completely blind to my hint. “And abusive too if you believe the rumors.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” I focused back on the Italian alabaster selling for almost 200k. Fortunately, it was the last item on sale, and after the French old man with the goatee had finally outbid the middle-aged executive, I grabbed my coat to leave. I hurried through the doors, hoping to shake off Arman but he was keeping close like an annoying kitten, almost stepping on my heels. There was a faint drizzle of rain outside, not too much to regret not bringing an umbrella, but enough to cast the city in a dim, gray light. Old ladies were gathering under the portico, fussing with their umbrellas and congesting the exit.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, by the way, been meaning to ask, you haven’t happened to see the new exhibition at Bodega yet, have you?” Arman followed me outside, “I mean, it’s probably not that great but Mark won’t shut up about it, you know how he gets, so I was thinking if you’re not too busy -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sidestepped an older wrinkly guy wearing a pretentious pair of pince-nez, who was ignorantly chatting on the phone in the middle of the square, and almost stepped on his overly excited Pomeranian as I searched the street for any vacant cabs. All I wanted to do was go home, make myself a hot cup of tea, hopefully find a text from Boris, and finish my book. Luckily, a cab had just turned the corner and was speeding towards us and I was just about to raise my hand to stop it when I saw him. Across the street, leaning against the car. Eating chocolates from a La Maison bag in his hand. The same dark leather jacket and messy curls, only now he had replaced his Italians leathers with heavy combat boots. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Potter!” Boris shouted, waving the bag with a wide grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, yes. What do you think?” Arman stepped in front of me, blocking my view of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh?” I looked at him bewildered, unable to understand if I was more confused over Boris casually standing in front of Christie’s or this stupid rich kid blocking my view of the only person I cared to see. “Right. Yes,” I shook my head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes?” Arman gleamed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? No, I’m - Excuse me.” I stepped around him and crossed the street to get to Boris.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the hell are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hobie told me where you are. Chocolate?” He offered me the bag. “Who the hell is that guy? Why’s he talking to you?” I looked over my shoulder at Arman, who was standing in the middle of the small square, looking like he expected me to return to answer something I had no idea he had asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, he’s no one,” I answered quickly. As much as I was glad to see Boris, it felt weird talking to him in front of Christie's with all the gossiping high-class artsies traipsing around us. “Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hurriedly, I got in the car and was immediately taken aback by the sight of Gyuri’s broad face uncomfortably close, grinning over his shoulder from the driver’s seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fyodor! I am most glad to see you!” He took my hand and shook it vigorously like I was a groom-to-be being introduced to the family.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris perched himself next to me on the edge of the backseat and nudged me in the ribs with his elbow, “Scooch over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing this, Gyuri smiled so widely I thought his cheeks were going to tear. I slid across the seat to sit behind the driver while Boris closed the door and off we were.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You work in this fancy place?” Boris looked through the rear window at Christie’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s an auction house. Why are you here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why? To see you of course! What do you think? You’re not happy to see me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I’m -” I glanced at Gyuri and lowered my voice to a whisper, “Of course I’m glad to see you, but you’re early, you weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No need to whisper,” Boris said uncomfortably loud, “Gyuri knows about us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I - what?” I stared at him, hoping I had heard him incorrectly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes! And it is most wonderful news! To have two such great friends, from so long ago, who have done so much for each other, also have so much love! How great it is!” Gyuri’s voice boomed, seemingly coming from a distance. I could hardly make out what he was saying, something about love and fate and gay rights (</span>
  <em>
    <span>what the hell does gay rights have to do with any of this?</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the only coherent thought I could formulate), his voice melting into one with the car horns, traffic and construction commotion going on outside and the peppy tune of Beach Boys coming from the radio (</span>
  <em>
    <span>And wouldn’t it be nice to live together..</span>
  </em>
  <span>), all formulating a confusing tsunami of sound that came crashing down on me, hardly giving me a chance to breathe. I sat frozen on my seat while Boris grinned at me with a smug look - </span>
  <em>
    <span>See? I told you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I was still staring at Boris, blinking, leaning slightly forwards, when we came to a sharp halt and I fell heavily back on the seat. I turned to look out the car window. Two middle-aged women walking their chihuahuas. Wilted lilies in front of the flower shop. White, apricot-orange, rosy pink. Little boy dropped his ice cream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, not everyone will understand, say it’s wrong, it’s a sin, all kinds of bullshit. But I have always said, I said it to Borya too when he told me, like Vadim, God bless his soul, always told me,” Gyuri turned on his seat to look at me, raised index finger, intense look in his eyes - “it’s love. In the end, it’s all about love. That’s all that matters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gave me an encouraging nod and a smile while I still gaped at him, too shell-shocked to say a word. Someone cursed loudly on the street. Cars honking behind us.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, wonderful,” Boris, finally sensing my discomfort, tuned in, “thank you Gyuri, you’re a good friend, but we really must go, the light,” he pointed at the traffic signal that had turned green. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the drive was filled by Gyuri’s talk of Vadim, his old friend, how he had lost him, the special bond they had had, and only when we stopped in front of the shop did I realize I had spent the entire ride completely unaware of where we were going. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are we doing here?” I turned sharply to Boris.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For dinner. Hobie asked us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? When was that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Before,” he shrugged, as if that was all the information necessary, “Gyuri, you should come too!” turning to me - “ You don’t mind, do you? Perfect,” and got out of the car before I had a chance to reply.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The three of us walked into the kitchen where Hobie was stirring something on the stove. The smell of fresh rosemary and sage, baked bread, and coffee filled the room, Hobie humming along to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lascia ch’io pianga </span>
  </em>
  <span>coming from the old wind-up Victrola in the corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello-hello! More people, how lovely,” he turned to Gyuri to shake his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am so sorry to bother you, I’m Gyuri, friend of Borya’s.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nonsense, no bother at all. I’m James Hobart but please, call me Hobie, everyone does. Come, sit. Would you like coffee or tea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris was already at the other end of the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge with Popchik, who I hadn’t even noticed come in the room, trailing behind him. Gyuri seated himself by the table (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Some tea would be great</span>
  </em>
  <span>), Hobie putting the kettle on (</span>
  <em>
    <span>I think we’ll eat in the kitchen if you gentlemen don’t mind, the dining room is a little damp in this weather. Could you set the table, Theo?</span>
  </em>
  <span>), Boris trying some stew from the pot on the stove (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Is delicious, Hobie! What is it?</span>
  </em>
  <span>) while I still stood at the door, my raincoat on, holding my briefcase, thoroughly dumbstruck at the strange play unfolding before me. How the hell had I got here? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Close your mouth or your heart will freeze,” Boris walked over to me, Popchik in his arms. “What happened? Why won’t you take your jacket off?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feeling like it was the only thing that had any clarity, I grabbed his arm: “A word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I steered him to the parlor where we stood for a full minute, looking at each other. The frown on Boris's face grew deeper and deeper as the silence between us lengthened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At last, he tilted his head, “So you’re gonna kiss me or -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You told him. You told him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, that,” his face cleared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You promised not to tell anyone!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t! Swear! He guessed it himself. Seriously,” he added when I looked at him incredulously, “is really not that hard for him to guess. He drives me everywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Hobie? What did you tell him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing! Said I happen to be in town and thought I’d come see you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then why’s he cooking dinner for us like we’re some jolly Greek family!?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because he’s nice! I don’t know! Why ask me? He asked if we wanna have dinner with him since I’m in town and all, what was I supposed to say? No, we’re too straight to have dinner together? We're having dinner with our imaginary girlfriends instead? What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opened my mouth. Boris raised an eyebrow. I closed my mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed. “To be honest, I don’t understand why you won’t tell him. You saw Gyuri, he knows and he’s happy for us! It’s a good thing! Stop staring at me and start believing me,” he added after another pause where I gaped at him like a fish out of water. “Not everyone’s against you. This is fine. You are fine. Everything is okay. Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Little by little his words started to clear the mist of confusion I was surrounded by.  He looked at me with his sure, steady gaze, firm enough to balance entire cities on. Nothing had happened, really. No one had said anything, I wasn’t beaten up, scorned, shoved against a wall. No one had laughed or shut me in a school locker. I turned my eyes to Popchik, who was laying in Boris’s arms, wagging his tail, seemingly just as relieved as Boris that I had come around, and scratched him behind the ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See, you’re good. It’s all good,” Boris smiled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? Maybe you’re right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I’m right, am always right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t say always but you do make sense sometimes. Just - I can’t tell Hobie. Not yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, suit yourself,” he gave Popchik a kiss, his lips brushing against my hand that was still lying on the dog’s head, and looked up. “You know, it’s really good to see you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s good to see you too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We locked eyes and smiled. It seemed the room had grown significantly warmer since we arrived. The parlor door was half-open but the kitchen was at the other end of the house, the sounds of chatter and classical music barely reaching us, distant like the traffic outside. Would it be too risky to kiss him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I really think we should go now,” Boris said, breaking our tender gaze, “I didn’t tell Gyuri that Hobie doesn’t know about us, and by the sound of it they’ve been talking for a while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I clutched his elbow, blank with horror, “Boris!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is okay, is okay. Let’s just go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When we got back in the kitchen, Gyuri was telling Hobie about his childhood in Brooklyn, Hobie laughing merrily over the story of a stray dog the kids in the neighborhood had collectively kept while draining rice in the sink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There you are,” he turned to us – “could you set the table, Theo? I was thinking the blue china for tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, sorry, I’ll do it now,” I shouldered my coat off and gave Boris a look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes-yes. Gyuri,” Boris turned to Gyuri and started talking to him in Russian while I gathered the cutlery and laid them out on the table. Their conversation quickly took on a rapid, sharp tone - a common tendency with the Russian language when two people didn’t agree on something, a tone I had heard plenty from Boris’s business calls. Gyuri goggled at Boris and me, a confused frown on his face, asking questions too fast for me to understand. I only caught fragmented words like love, friends, time, and a whole row of </span>
  <em>
    <span>pochemu</span>
  </em>
  <span>s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is everything all right?” Hobie asked, looking between Boris and Gyuri.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Boris answered quickly and smiled, “is just business talk. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dostatochno Gyuri. Eto ne ego vina.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not his fault.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gyuri spread out his arms in a familiar manner and, although he spoke in Russian, turned to me, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Takaya krasivaya libov'. Zachem pryatat'sya?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gyuri,” Boris’s voice took on a warning tone so, at last, Gyuri just shook his head in defeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris came over to me to help me carry the wine glasses and winked at me winningly, but I knew he was at least as disappointed as Gyuri was. I gave him a weak smile and turned away, feeling rotten. That’s not what he wanted, it wasn’t supposed to be like that for him. I was lucky enough to know firsthand that when Boris loved, he loved with his whole being. From day one, he had been ready to declare our love to all his friends, business partners, any random stranger he bumped into on the street, shout it off the rooftops and fight anyone who came between us. And now I was making him restrain all that. It wasn’t his battle to fight, he wasn’t supposed to explain this to anyone, he wasn’t supposed to hide in shadows and lie. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. But somehow, it felt like I was. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The dinner passed off calmly enough. Gyuri and Boris told Hobie ridiculous stories about Russia, most of which involved the doomed combination of too much vodka, insane amounts of snow and driving, while I sat silently in my corner, sneaking small bites of food to Popchik under the table. Gyuri had seemed to settle to the fact that I was a worthless coward and overall a piece of shit and I could only feel one or two looks of pity being sent my way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After dinner, Hobie took Boris and Gyuri for a tour around the workshop to which they both followed politely along and asked a few questions, but I could see what Hobie was so charmingly blind to: not everyone loved antiques. As tactfully as I could, I cut his excursion short - the only useful thing I did that night - and Gyuri and Boris could say their goodbyes to him. The three of us went outside to the car that stood at the curb. It was still drizzling and strangely dark for July, damp wind blew through the linden trees, scattering lonely leaves on the pavement and the hood of the car. Black windows loomed ominously across the street, the streetlight flickered above us. I watched Boris heave a hefty duffle bag out of the drunk, along with two battered cardboard boxes, one of which he shoved into my arms: “You take this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure you don’t want me to drive you? It doesn’t look like it’s going to stop,” Gyuri stared at the overcast sky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it, it’s close by, we’ll walk. Thank you, Gyuri,” Boris slapped Gyuri on the shoulder and turned to me, “Don’t look so gloomy, today is a happy day! Come on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stepped closer to Gyuri to shake his hand, but he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me closer, “Look after him, yeah? He’s not as tough as he makes out to be.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze and smiled. I nodded silently and walked off to Boris, who was eagerly waiting to start going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah! What a lovely dinner, fit for kings! It’s good you went to live with him after Vegas or you wouldn’t have grown an inch, you’d be tiny like you were back then. I would still be staring at the top of your head when talking to you, ha!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, I wasn’t that short,” I smiled. Despite everything, I was feeling slightly giddy over the fact that we were finally together again, walking to what was going to be our home, just the two of us. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that all your stuff?” I asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Almost. I left some winter things in Antwerp since we’ll probably go there at some point before it gets cold. And I think I still have some clothes at Farah’s, I’ll pick them up tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My girlfriend in New York. Ex-girlfriend.” He added with a teasing smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever,” I rolled my eyes and quickly changed the subject, “How did it go in Petersburg? With the punks who tried to steal your supplier?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, piece of cake.” Boris waved his hand dismissively, “it was as I thought, too young to know what they’re doing, we scared them off pretty fast. Ah, I almost forgot to tell you!” he turned to me with a bright smile, “remember Andrei? The janitor we talked to on the street?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back in Petersburg, there had been an old guy sweeping the courtyard behind our building who Boris liked to make small talk with. Before I left, he told us about this big business idea of his of selling old Soviet junk as valuable antiquities to stupid tourists and wanted to know my opinion. I might have been too subtle in letting him know what a crap idea it was, because, as Boris told me then, he had actually started collecting beaten up toys and furniture and rented a huge storage compartment in the city.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But guess what?” Boris said as we stepped inside the elevator. “He’s not as stupid as you thought, it’s actually working out! People will buy anything, I’m telling you! He says he has a buddy in Moscow who can help him expand there. Man, you should have let me invest! I said it’s a great idea, didn’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe he’s only telling you this so you would invest?” I leaned against the elevator wall and turned my head to look at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re so sceptical, have some faith! You know what?” He laughed, “I’ll let him pitch to you the next time we’re there, you’ll see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I gave an imperceptible nod and stared at my shoes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” Boris asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh?” I lifted my head and shrugged. “Nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been quiet all night. You’re not happy to see me?” Boris frowned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I am. I am, really,” I added when he didn’t look convinced, “it’s just, you know -” I shrugged again, “one of those days, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, I see,” Boris nodded seriously as the elevator reached our floor and we got off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what your problem is?” Boris said and leaned against the doorframe of our apartment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” I let out a cheerless laugh while hunting for my keys, “I wonder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think a lot and you feel a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t feel a lot!” I protested. I opened the front door and we went in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, hear me out, I know what you’re thinking,” Boris placed the box and his bag on the floor and turned to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “I don’t mean you feel a lot as in you’re overly emotional. I know you think you can’t feel many things and you’re dead inside and sad all the time and all that but I think you feel great many things. Or how should I say this?” his eyes darted to the ceiling then back at me - “You’re very susceptible. Like, you see a badly kept old chair and you get angry. It rains, the city is gray and you’re sad. Spring is coming and you’re even sadder. But also,” he smiled - “when you see a pretty painting, you’ll tell me about it for weeks, you see a small bird hop along the sidewalk and you stop and smile, so, you know, it’s not necessarily a bad thing to be so influenced by everything. I see a painting, I think let’s sell it and make money. I see a chair, I think yes, I’m tired, I can sit. So, I guess what I’m saying is, you see so much more and so differently than I do and I love that about you.” He gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze - “I love that you can see beyond an object’s purpose or what the weather will do to our plans or how much milk you should buy. Everything is deeper and brighter with you, nothing is only as it looks. But sometimes, like today, it can get a lot and then you’re sad, so maybe what you need is something that will make you stop thinking. But luckily,” he leaned closer, our noses touching, and smiled, “I know just the thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you make up this entire speech just so you could get me to bed with you?” I smiled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed, “Maybe,” and long last, brought our lips together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Afterward I lay on my back in the bed, smoking and staring at the ceiling I had repainted white when I first moved in. It had been an ugly purple, something straight out of the eighties. 2 am paint job, after a three-hour phone call with Boris, who had just woken up in Antwerp, and two glasses of Cutty Sark. City lights shining bright and promising through the bedroom window, Thelonious Monk softly playing in the background from the record player I had received from Hobie as a house warming present.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris was sitting up, resting his back against the headboard, cracking sunflower seeds with his front teeth, and humming a tune that sounded vaguely familiar. Some old Polish folk song he used to sing when we were walking to the CAT bus. I stared at the slight hue of purple still visible in one corner of the ceiling where I had run out of paint and frowned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How the hell am I going to tell Hobie?” I said and set out a cloud of smoke at the faint blotch of purple. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh?” Boris spit out the empty shells and threw them on the nightstand, “About us, you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turned my eyes to him and nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” he moved down the bed to lay next to me, wiggled his shoulders to get more comfortable and took my hand that lay on top of the blanket – “you say: Hobie, I have something important to tell you. You might want to sit down for this one. The thing is, I love Boris. I always have. And we’re together now and we live together and we’re gonna stay together forever and ever. And I don’t know what you think about him, but he’s funny and smart and sexy and insanely good in bed –“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up,” I laughed and nudged his foot with mine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“– like crazy good, I’ve never had orgasms like that –“ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckled and squeezed my hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eyes back on me – “And,” serious again – “he takes care of me and he wants me to be happy and well-fed and warm. And he loves me very very much.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We were quiet for a while, just looking at each other. His hand in mine was warm and slightly sweaty, a lock of hair had gracefully fallen across his forehead. I felt I could drown in those dark eyes and be happy about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” I finally asked quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pressed a soft kiss on his bare shoulder. “I’m gonna say all that, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, and he’ll be very happy for us. I know it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t know that,” I sighed and reached across Boris for the ashtray on the nightstand to stab out my cigarette. The ash on the tip had grown almost an inch long, small gray flakes settled on the white sheets on the way.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I can. He loves you. If you’re happy, he’s happy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think it’s as easy as that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No? I think it is,” he propped himself up on one elbow and regarded me seriously. “Why are you so worried about this? Why wouldn’t he understand? He’s gay too!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” I stared at him dumbfounded, “I’m not – Well – that's not – I don’t think he is.” I finished lamely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He lived with another man for what? Twenty-thirty years? You honestly think they were just business partners? Potter, Potter, Potter,” he shook his head, “they even had a child together!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pippa isn’t their child! She couldn’t even stay with Hobie after Welty died!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s just because of stupid homophobic laws. In every other sense, she was their child, they brought her up! That’s what matters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t know about that. But that doesn’t make him – you know, him and Welty. And anyways, it doesn’t matter. None of this means that he’s gonna be fine with me. Us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris gave one of his characteristic Russianate shrugs, “You just have to tell him and see. Only way to find out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I settled back down on the bed. An orange square of streetlight shone through the bedroom window and stood sullenly on the wall. Black drops of rain, magnified in the night, meandered down the glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think he’ll hate me,” I said grimly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Boris let out an incredulous laugh, “He’s not gonna hate you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I didn’t answer him but let my eyes rove around the room, not really seeing anything. I imagined telling Hobie what Boris had just told me - though not in quite so many words and preferably less vividly - maybe sometime after he had had a long day in the workshop when he was at his most genial. Standing in the kitchen, tea waiting on the table for the both of us, Hobie taking off his work apron with his slow steady movements, hanging it on the peg, before sitting down in front of me: </span>
  <em>
    <span>What’s the matter, Theo?. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His amiable, unsuspecting smile turning into a confused frown as if he doubted he’d heard me properly, and then - what exactly? Disgust? Anger? Contempt? I sighed. It’s not like I hadn’t tried to imagine this before; ever since Boris and I talked things out, I knew at the back of my head that for this to work, I had to tell Hobie. But every time I tried to picture his reaction, his face swayed and rippled like stone cast in water and turned into my mother instead. Her lips pressed together into a tight line, the same look of pity and disgust she used to give my dad when he staggered home late at night, drunk off his ass, vomit on his dress shirt, rattling with the front door, bumping into objects and cursing to himself loud enough to wake up the neighbours. All of a sudden I became odiously aware of the sweaty sheets sticking to my back and thighs, the lewd smell of cigarettes and sex seeping through my skin and contaminating me from the inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need a shower,” I mumbled and pushed the covers aside to get off the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Already? Okay,” Boris sat up to come with me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, no, I think I’ll go alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why? What’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sat on the edge of the bed and kept my eyes on his shirt that lay crumpled up on the floor. “Nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No? Because we haven’t seen each other for over two weeks and now you wanna take shower alone. I thought you’d be crazy about me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I am! I’m just -” I exhaled and looked around the room. “I’ll see you soon,” I got up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When I got out of the shower and back in the bedroom, he was nowhere to be seen. For one frightful moment, I thought he had left, but then I heard the sound of TV coming from the next room. I picked up our clothes that were lying around the floor and mechanically started putting them away. I folded his black jeans and placed them in the drawer I had emptied for him, shook out his shirt and hung it in the closet. When I picked up my trousers, there was a faint jingle and I felt something heavy in the pocket. I reached in to find the keys I still hadn’t given him. I had even puckered up my courage and walked to the gift shop in the Met to buy an identical keychain with The Goldfinch that he had attached to my set. Looking at it, I remembered the night he gave me the keys, how we had sat on that small sofa in Petersburg, how close we had been. Pleasant summer air wafting through the open window, our heads huddled together, the light in my memory a warm yellow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s not as tough as he makes out to be</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Gyuri’s words came back to me and my heart clenched. With a painful blow, I remembered his bedroom in Vegas: the make-shift decorations he could pack up in ten minutes, the fabrics with their dull faded colors, stinky towels and unwashed clothes. How we used to sneak upstairs when his dad got home, our noses buried in comic books, arms pressed together, the door firmly shut to muffle his unsteady, ghostly limp. And my own small room that felt like a haven to us, with the messy bed, thin sheets, and empty walls, cold light in the bathroom. Our backs against the wall, stomachs rumbling, when the tension of my dad’s bad game day spread through the house like poison. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I clutched the keys in my fist and walked to the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was sitting on the sofa cross-legged, wearing a tattered dark T-shirt I recognized from Antwerp, watching cartoons with a bottle of beer in his hand. I knew he had heard me walk in but he didn’t look up. I sat next to him, a small distance between us. Without a word, he sipped his beer, his attention seemingly fixed on the screen: ugly technicolor 3D figures that looked like something a three-year-old would make out of molding clay ran across the screen, zebras and beavers, tigers and elephants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I knew if I’d move my hand only a few inches to the right it would brush against his knee, but somehow it felt like he was sitting at the other side of a wall. I hated it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I cleared my throat. “I missed you,” I finally said. The cartoon beaver finished chewing on a tree that fell atop of an unsuspecting panda. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? Could have fooled me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. I’m sorry.  It’s just -” I sighed, “I’m not particularly happy with who I am. And I think it’s gonna be a while before I figure out how to live with myself. But that’s not your fault. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I don’t want our home to be like that,” I turned my head to look at him, “Loving you is the only thing I like about me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned his eyes from the TV and looked straight down the neck of the bottle he had in his hand, tilting it slightly like he was searching for something he had dropped in the beer. “You love me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up,” I let out a short laugh, thinking he was teasing me but when he lifted his head, I saw he was completely earnest. I stopped immediately. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I do, Boris. You know that.” I said, “Right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t say it very often.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I do. Love you, I mean. That’s just how I am, I guess. And about what you said earlier,” I looked down at the keys in my hand, “I just want you to know I feel the same. About the happy and warm part and everything. I want you to be safe here and everywhere but especially here. And I want you to feel that you can always come here and stay, and it’s not like - you don’t have to worry about what you say or do and there’s no - nothing to be scared of, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.” He gave a small smile and nodded at the keys, “What’s that you got there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” I lifted the keys up and handed them to him. “It’s for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For this place?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. For home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He handed me the bottle and stretched his legs out to rest on the coffee table before leaning his weight against me and his head on my chest. He held the keys up to the light and took the keychain between his fingers to examine it closer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, he kinda looks like you,” he said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I placed my feet next to his and for a moment hesitated, but then put my arm around his shoulders, pressing him closer.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? That’s funny. I think he looks like you.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, I love to hear your thoughts :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was gonna wait a few days before putting it out there but I was feeling super lonely so I thought if there's anyone else feeling lonely tonight it might make them feel better</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I woke up early the next morning and the first thing I registered was a terrible pain in my neck. I opened my eyes and saw Boris’s hand stretched over the edge of the sofa and the blurry leg of the coffee table behind it. We had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Boris’s one arm was wrapped around me, his slender fingers surrounding the wrinkles in my T-shirt like he had clutched it in his sleep; the other underneath my neck, which is why it hurt so bad. I lay still for a while, watching dust twirl in a batch of sunlight, listening to the sounds of morning going on around me - water flowing, elevator humming, car horns outside - and wondered how I had slept so soundly in such an uncomfortable position and without a blanket. Although it was July, I didn’t keep the heating on during summer and nights could get pretty cold. Boris stirred in his sleep behind me and let out a warm breath on my neck, snuggling his head closer to mine and pressing his hand against my chest. He had curled himself tightly around me with one leg thrown over mine. For a minute I debated whether I should get up and risk waking him or just stay still, but eventually the pain in my neck proved to be too much to bear and I sat up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris mumbled something in his sleep and curled into a tight ball, bringing his arms to his chest, but I didn’t seem to have woken him. I put on my glasses that had been tossed on the coffee table and checked my phone: it was barely past seven. The table was littered with remnants of last night: empty beer bottles and two mugs with cold tea, Boris’s keys, half empty bag of Rocky Mountain marshmallows, with some of them spilled on the floor, packet of Marlboros, the wrappers of some appallingly sweet Russian candy Boris had brought with him and my Bernardaud’s Limoges porcelain dessert plate, part of the dinner set Kitsey and I had received as engagement present, featuring as a makeshift ashtray in the middle of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Massaging my neck with one hand, I brought a blanket from the bedroom and laid it on Boris. I then collected the rubbish and empty bottles in my hands and went to the kitchen to throw them out before putting the kettle on for coffee. I stood with my back to the counter as the water boiled, heels of my palms pressed against its cool marble top, and looked around the apartment. His two boxes still stood in the hallway, the duct tape peeling off on one, and his duffel bag - unzipped, clothes peeping out - slouched in the middle of the living room floor. Everything else looked just like it had two nights before: the same mahogany dinner table I had unearthed in Hobie’s Ali Baba cave in Brooklyn with three ribband back chairs, same scratched hardwood floors and alabaster walls with two old photos of my mom hanging in antique silver frames, same view from the kitchen window: brown brick corner of the building across the street, checkered curtains in front of the window on the fourth floor, fire stairs zig-zagging down the side. As far as I could see, no great change had materialized, but something in the air had shifted. It didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>like the apartment two nights ago when I had eaten take-out Chinese food alone in front of the TV, emptied a drawer in the dresser and one side of the bathroom cabinet. Overnight, an invisible but fundamental shift had occurred: everything looked brighter and sharper, the objects seemed to have taken a breath of fresh air, appearing resplendent, invigorated; the streak of sunlight had a golden glimmer of depth I had never noticed before. Even the air I was breathing seemed more full, more salubrious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kettle whistled. I jolted out of my reverie with a start and busied myself with making coffee. I then opened the kitchen window and let in the morning rattle of traffic and garbage trucks, pigeon coos and the distant cries of seagulls. I sat at the kitchen table, listening to Boris quietly snore from the other end of the room and sipped my coffee. It was a weekday but I had deliberately taken the morning off thinking I would go to the airport to pick up Boris but, instead, I had earned a peaceful morning for just the two of us. The sky was a sweet bright blue with white clouds like loose brushstrokes, the air that glided in was fresh and clear, nothing like the damp wind of last night. I rested my head on my hand and couldn’t help but smile. It was strange. When Kitsey and I had been looking for apartments it had felt like a chore, something one had to go through to become a certified member of society. Even at our best times I often found myself on the comforting thought that at least she had a habit of going on week long holidays with her girlfriends once every few months (although now I’m not so sure that’s what she was doing). The idea of living with the same person for the rest of my life had always filled me with an unreasonable amount of dread but I had jolted down my rapid exhaustion of other people as primarily a fault of my own. Even while living with Hobie, as kind and hospitable as he was, I had always felt some level of restraint in the house and could never really be myself until I had closed the bedroom door and jammed the iron doorstop underneath it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris’s soft breaths, the rustle of the blanket as he turned and the tip of his foot that peaked over the edge of the sofa, however, gave me nothing but an absolute, immense sense of peace. Making coffee for the same person every morning for the rest of my life felt like a blessing rather than a curse if that person was Boris. Waking up next to him, going to sleep with him, watching TV, going grocery shopping, seeing his face when I looked up from my dinner plate, never having to worry if I said the right thing or said too much, what parts of me did I keep hidden and what parts had I revealed. Rather than living with another person, living with him seemed more like living with a more pleasanter, loveable extension of myself: he knew pretty much all there was to know about me - as I did of him - so in that respect we were the same, only all hate I had I directed at myself and all love at him. As novel as the experience of living with him was, for real this time, it felt a more natural and evident course of things than anything else in my life. This is how it’s going to be from now on, I thought, and though I had fucked up plenty of things in my short miserable life, I made a mental resolution that morning never to fuck up this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting at the kitchen table made me feel weirdly separated from him, so I moved to sit in front of the couch instead, taking my coffee and my book with me. I sat on the floor, leaned by back against the sofa and read my book until Boris woke up a few hours later. I heard him turn and yawn; marking the page carefully, I put my book away to look at him. He looked his sweetest at these barely awake moments - eyes half-closed, cheeks tinted pink, ethereal smile on his lips - as though he was still lingering in some lovely dream world he had been inhabiting for the night.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled as he caught my eye and then stretched himself like a cat, chin up, arms above his head, feet dangling over the edge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>blyad</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he groaned suddenly and brought one arm down to rub his neck, “That hurt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know. Told you we should have gone to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would have but you didn’t move, sleeping on my arm like a fat puppy,” he curled up again and tucked one hand underneath his cheek. He nodded at the book on the table, “What’s that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I lifted it up for him to see; it was Ishiguro’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Unconsoled</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any good?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shrugged. “It feels a bit like one of those black and white movies we used to watch from that art channel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Remember the one where the lady cut into a chair and it started bleeding? Ha! And then you cut a hole in the couch with a kitchen knife to see what would happen,” Boris laughed gleefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up,” I punched him in the arm, “it was the first time I’d done weed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And then Xandra saw it in the morning and we had to make something up, what did we say again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We tried to act like it had been there before I moved in but I don’t think she bought it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, yes,” Boris chuckled and turned to his back. Eyes closed, he relished in morning sunlight that glided through the window just so to cast a warm golden square of light on his head. There was a faint checkered pattern from the sofa cushion on his cheek. It was weird to think this was the same couch he had kissed me on little more than two months ago. It was weird to think we were still the same people as back then. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris’s phone chimed on the coffee table; he reached out to check the message on the screen and frowned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it?” I asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh? Nothing. Work stuff, just be a minute.” Taking his phone with him, he got up and went to the kitchen where he started talking to someone in Ukrainian. I sat up on the couch, leaning my back against the armrest, and tried to read but I couldn’t help glancing at Boris’s direction every now and again. His whole demeanor changed when he switched over to his father’s tongue, gone was the sweet dreamy Boris, replaced with an efficient, cautious businessman. He spoke fast, sharp succinct replies alternating with long instructions, his tone threading that fine line between worried and annoyed; tapping his index finger on the kitchen counter and chewing his bottom lip in frustration. After what seemed like half an hour, he hung up rapidly and my eyes flicked guiltily back to my book, the same sentence I had been reading the entire duration of his phone call: </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s nonsense to believe people go on loving each other regardless of what happens.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He came back to the living room and flung himself down on the sofa with a tired groan. He lifted my legs to his lap, stretched his own out to rest on the coffee table and, resting his head against the backrest, closed his eyes. Shouting down on the street, the sound of a truck backing up. I folded the corner of the page back and forth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is everything okay?” I finally asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, everything’s great,” he opened his eyes and ran his hands over my shins ruminatively, staring at the ceiling. He then turned to me and after contemplating me for a while, smiled: “You know, your hair is darker now. It was lighter in Vegas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” I closed my book and tossed it on the coffee table. “Must have been the sun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you don’t get much sun anymore?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess so. I’m indoors most of the time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should get out more then! You know what we should do!” bright smile, hard slap on my knee - “We should go to the park! Go for a walk! I don’t think I’ve ever taken a nice walk there, always running somewhere. And it would be good for you to get out, get some vitamin B or what was it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you hated the sun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at me surprised, our eyes met and tout de suite we were back under that scorching sun, waiting in line for a school bus, two outsiders in the midst of the desert. Skin sticking to the seat from the heat, faint smells of petrol and sweat, clamor and laughing in the back, old gum under the seats. The two of us in companionable silence, shoulders bumping together, chewing aspirin for breakfast now stretched out on this sofa in New York, light-years from our former selves and yet, in some bone-deep way, exactly the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Conspiratory smile spread across Boris’s face, “Maybe not so much anymore, have some good memories with the sun,” and, for no apparent reason, we both burst out laughing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We spent the day putting away Boris’s things - the vinyl records he had brought with him from Antwerp crackling in the background - went out for lunch and a walk in the park, lazed a drowsy afternoon listening to music and reading, snug on the sofa together, until the evening when I had to leave to take Mrs. Barbour to a concert I had promised her and Boris went to his ex’s place for his things. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris’s monologue on post-Soviet punk bands accompanied with the weight of his head on my lap had made me lose track of time and when I finally climbed the subway stairs on Lexington Avenue, it was nearly half an hour past the appointed time. I hurried through the lobby to the front door, expecting to find a very justly irritated Mrs. Barbour on the other side, but it was Etta who opened the door for me; wide at first but then, to my surprise, hurriedly closed it so that only her face peeked through the slit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo,” she said, smiling but seemingly flustered, “Gosh, I thought you were the driver. I’ll just let Mrs. Barbour know you’re here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s okay,” I put my hand reflexively on the door she was just about to close in my face, “I can get her, she’s still in, isn’t she?” I took a small step forward, hoping she’d take the hint and let me in instead of standing in the doorway in this stupid manner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course, it’s just -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that Theo?” Delicate click of heels on parquet and Kitsey’s voice somewhere behind Etta, “What’s wrong, Etta? Let him in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Etta looked over her shoulder in surprise and, turning back to me, smiled apologetically, before opening the door. I walked in and stopped mid-step. It was Tom Cable. Standing in the middle of the foyer next to Kitsey, helping her jacket on. He looked uncharacteristically smart, clad in a navy suit and red tie, shoes polished to an exceptional shine; only his crinkly hair, tousled from the wind, remained untamed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo.” The split second our eyes met he seemed almost apprehensive, but quickly threw on a nonchalant smile as if the last time we saw each other we had parted as nothing less than the best of pals, and stepped forward to shake my hand. “God, it’s been ages.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mechanically, I took his hand; its grip was cold and lax. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi. Yeah. Wow,” I said and looked over his shoulder at Kitsey whose carefree smile equaled Tom’s. They really were a match made in heaven. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Tom lifted his hand vacuously, “You look great, man. We should get a drink sometime, you know, catch up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” I said, thinking how I’m gonna laugh about this with Boris later</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kitsey came over to us, gracefully flinging her scarf over her neck before standing up on tiptoe to give me a cold little kiss on the cheek, “We were just going, you don’t have to say why you’re here, Mommy wouldn’t shut up about the tickets you got her,” she said cheerfully but for an instant, a tinge of annoyance flickered in her smile. “It’s awfully nice of you to take her out, Theo, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No problem. Is everything alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighed and tilted her head like one of Mrs. Barbour’s dogs whenever dinner was laid out on the table, “Well, she’s a bit moody today. I told her about the promotion I finally got, for the studio manager, remember?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The one you applied for ages ago? Wow, that’s great. Congrats!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she emphasized the words as if I’d proven some point she was trying to make, “It’s a great opportunity, you know, I’m finally feeling like my input actually matters. And the competition there was tough, to be honest, I wasn’t sure I would get it, I’ve been a complete nervous fuss these past few weeks, haven’t I, Tom?” she glanced over her shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have,” Tom replied obediently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And she just -” Kitsey pursed her lips like she had a habit of doing whenever she felt wronged - “she acted like it was nothing, like I only got it because of Gaga which is so not true, she hasn’t been involved for ages. Well, no matter,” she fluttered her shoulders on a deep inhale before readjusting her pleasant but cold Barbour smile. “How are you doing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lovely! Have fun,” she squeezed my arm gently and walked out, Tom’s hand on the small of her back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I walked over to the back room, where I found Mrs. Barbour sitting in one of the worn down armchairs by the fireplace with a perfect upright posture, the folds of her stone blue gown falling gracefully from her lap to the floor, patiently waiting for me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo,” she turned her head at the sound of my footsteps; for a brief moment I felt an urge to stop and stare in bafflement, it was like seeing a statue move. “I was wondering where you were. I don’t want to arrive too late or it gets crowded.” She turned her cheek to me and after I gave it a small apologetic peck, accepted my arm and we walked outside where a car was already waiting for us.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course Charles will be there, you know Charles Dahler?” Mrs. Barbour was telling me as passing streetlights danced and glimmered intermittently on her magnificent snowflake brooch. “Excellent musician and a dear friend. He was more of Chance’s friend of course than mine, but still, he’s been awfully kind, sending me free tickets for his chorus concerts every Christmas. Lovely quiet man. He’s writing some review on tonight’s concert, it would be a delight to see him and hear what he thinks. He has a wonderful ear for these sorts of things, you know, and an absolutely charming way of words. Very striking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw Kitsey on my way in,” I said in the silence that followed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, she was here. She and that awful boy,” Mrs. Barbour sighed and shook her head slightly, her pearls earrings seemed to shiver at the thought, “I know very well what she’s trying to do, making him dress in expensive suits, sending me flower arrangements, coming by unannounced to walk my dogs. My dogs are perfectly fine, thank you very much. She’s trying to make me like the boy which, I’m sorry to say, I simply cannot do. Seeing him more won’t make me like him any better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kitsey seems pretty sure in her choice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She always was a scatterbrain, just like her father. If you tell her what to do, she’ll do the exact opposite, but if you don’t tell her, she’ll make the most terrible choices.” She placed her hand on mine, cold removed touch like marble, “She’s a fool for losing you. If she had any sense at all, she would have married you and never started anything with that - that poodle.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> called off the engagement,” I reminded her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And who can blame you. It’s despicable what she did to you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What you both did</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I couldn’t help thinking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least her work is going well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, that. I’ve never had any expectations for her career, as long as she marries well, which, by the looks of it, she will not. I really can’t tell what will come of her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps you’re being a bit too harsh? It’s a respected company, she’s doing what she loves, what she’s good at.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mrs. Barbour scoffed, “Delivering coffees and writing protocols.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not what she does,” I frowned. One would have thought that losing a child would make Mrs. Barbour appreciate her other children more, but she was as blind as ever. At some point she had formed an opinion of Kitsey and stuck with it despite any contrary evidence, which was a shame because out of them all, she was the most like her mother. But since I was no longer even a prospective member of the family, it felt out of place to say anything more on the subject so I steered the conversation to more congenial topics, a dazzling collection of Belle Epoque era Cartier clocks I had found on an estate sale, and while she talked about an urn clock her great-grandaunt had allegedly received from George M. Cohan, thought about Boris and what he would be doing that moment. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After the concert - a young Korean piano prodigy playing Ravel and Boulanger - and leaving Mrs. Barbour back in the armchair I had found her in, cozy in her well-worn slippers, hot cocoa on the table beside her, I took the cab as the fastest route to get home. It felt like weeks had passed on a single evening and I missed Boris, missed his touch, his voice, his mere presence. I was eager to get home, counting the blocks to the apartment, almost dropped my keys at the door, but when I walked in, it was quiet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boris?” I called out. Nothing. The rooms were dark. I’d been so anxious to see him, it hadn’t even occurred to me he wasn’t the type of person to sit around in an empty apartment waiting for me to get home. He hadn’t in all likelihood even been home yet; probably still stuck in Queens chatting with his ex or sitting in a bar with some friends he had bumped into on the street. Disappointed, I turned on the light and went to the bedroom for a change of clothes. As I walked through the door, my eye was immediately caught by a cardboard box in the middle of the room, unscathed with an Amazon logo on the side, unlike the shabby boxes Boris had brought home last night. More of his clothes were tucked into drawers, some books with Cyrillic titles stood on the nightstand, and two Ralph Lauren suits hung in the closet. So he had been home. I shut the closet doors, slouched against them and dialed his number: no answer. Then left him a text and immediately tried calling him again. By then it had grown dark outside. Sinister clouds sailed across the sky and over the thin crescent moon I had kept my eyes on. No answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of a sudden, I remembered the call he had made this morning. Something had sounded off about that. I moved by the window and peered out: strange figures walking down the street, a car pulled up on the pavement but no one got out. A flock of black crows swooped across the night sky and disappeared over the rooftops. The air felt tense. A shout and I jumped back. For two anxious minutes I stood still, listening, like a bird waiting for a sign of attack or safety, then realized how paranoid I was being and forced myself to change my clothes. When I turned away from the closet, pulling a sweater over my head, I noticed something I hadn’t seen when I first walked in the room: a lonely glove peeking out underneath the bed. That’s strange, I thought. I fixed my glasses and went over to pick it up. It was mine. Black faux leather glove Pippa had given me for Christmas three years ago. I hadn’t used them for over half a year, during which I had definitely cleaned the room, so why was it there? I frowned and reached for the box on the upper shelf of the closet where I kept my winter things when it hit me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” I muttered out loud. I pulled the box down, dropped it on the ground and, kneeling next to it, tossed the hats and scarves aside to find the entire assemblage of my journals. While I was living with Hobie, I had kept them in my locked desk drawer, and though I never read them I was too paranoid to throw them out lest someone somehow would get a hold of them and find something incriminating. After I moved out, however, I had been at a loss as to what to do with them. Amsterdam (and Boris) had given me a new chance at life, it had been my Damascus, a rebirth, and those journals were a proof of everything I was trying not to be anymore. On the other hand, after having kept them for so many years, I couldn’t bear to burn or destroy them in any way, it would have been like killing off my younger self. So, indecisive as I was, I had shoved them in a box underneath my winter things and in the farthest corner of the closet where, it seemed, Boris must have found them when putting away his things. I checked the order of the journals and leafed through some of them; there was no doubt - Boris had read them. Was that why he wasn’t home? Had he found something upsetting? For anyone else, practically everything in those journals was upsetting, but Boris already knew all of it. Not even that, he had always taken pretty much everything I ever told him with aplomb. (I still remember his reaction when I first told him how my mother had died: the two of us sitting by the edge of the pool in my house, tangling our feet in water. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Boris had said matter-of-factly, passing me the bottle, and anything else would have been superfluous.) But somehow I couldn’t shake off the feeling that this had something to do with these journals. I tried calling him again; still no answer. What was it? Was it the drugs? I hadn’t written anything explicit, only enough to keep track of the dosage, but surely, drugs weren’t an issue for him. The fakes I had sold? But he knew that. He had even praised me for it. What I had written about Kitsey? Pippa? Was it possible that he was jealous? But why would he? He already knew all that, I had told him myself, and he knew how I felt about him. Was there really anything to be upset about? Then where was he? Why was he gone? Why hadn’t he called or texted or left a single fucking message?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sat on the bed and dialed his number again. Longing tone of monotony, forever perched on an edge. The bedroom light spilled out the open door, absorbed by the darkness in the rest of the apartment. Long shadows in silent rooms, hollow orange squares of streetlight, distant sounds of traffic and happy lives lived elsewhere, distinct emptiness in my chest. Small part of me still waited for my mother to walk through the door any second. The phone rang for at least a minute and I was just about to hang up when he answered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Boris said with a toneless voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” I straightened my back, “is everything okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes I am. I’m -” he seemed hesitant, “I’m in the bar down the street, the one next to the Korean shop.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. I’ll come there then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he hung up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was a small hipster place with craft beers and vintage Japanese signs on the walls that I had walked past a million times but never entered. He was sitting by the half-empty counter, bottle of beer in front of him, twirling the coaster in his hand. I sat on the stool next to him. He gave me a quick glance from the corner of his eye and then turned back to his drink. Something was obviously wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I flicked my finger on the bottle, “What are you drinking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Some Asian bullshit. Tastes like seaweed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I took a deep breath, “Look, Boris -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I get you anything?” The bartender appeared out of nowhere like he had sat underneath the counter before jumping up, and flashed me a bright hospitable smile; thick beard and checkered flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows like a lumberjack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um,” I looked at the bewildering array of colorful labels behind him, “Anything German, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, we only deal East Asian and Oceanic beers. I could recommend you our new -'' he started but I cut him short: “I’m good then, thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking offended, the hipster lumberjack shrugged and walked off to the other end of the counter where he picked up a cloth and started wiping glasses while telling something fast and heated to another lumberjack fellow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris chortled, “You should have seen the look he made when I asked for a Heineken.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you read my journals,” I cut right to the chase. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris turned to me with a sudden look of surprise; then brought his eyebrows down and picked up the coaster again, apparently intrigued with its colorful lettering. Cheers and chatter around us, suave rhythm of Japanese city pop, chair scraping along the floor.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not mad,” I tried to catch his eye. He didn’t answer. “Did something happen?” I asked, exasperated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You tell me,” he finally said with a dismissive shrug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. Look, I don’t wanna do this now, something is obviously bothering you, just come out with it, will you. Is it the journals?” He cocked his head. “It’s the journals, isn’t it? I don’t understand what’s bothering you, if anything, I should be the one who’s offended, they weren’t yours to read in the first place!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you admit it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Admit what?” I was growing annoyed. “You already know everything about me! What could you possibly find in there that I hadn’t told you already?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t tell me you tried to kill yourself a few years ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That shut me up. “I didn’t wanna worry you,” I said, after a moment or two. “Besides, that’s over now. I’m better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you didn’t tell me why you wanted to kill yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your redhead. You love her, don’t you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shook my head in confusion. “No! I mean, yes, I did, but it’s different now. And besides, you knew that, I told you myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not like that! You made it seem like it was some - some I don’t know, not that serious at least. I thought you were just fooling yourself, but what you wrote there? It’s serious. All those stuff you did, the things you bought her, I mean, I’m not judging you, you know that, but you were full on obsessed with her. You can’t tell me all that’s just gone now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris’s words sent a flaming wave of embarrassment over me, suddenly I remembered every detail, every idiotic, obsessive thing I had written there: my fantasies about her, her pale skin, innocent freckles and heartbreaking eyes; the things I had imagined telling her, my conviction of our destined, binding love; how I had repeatedly tried and failed to kiss her, the system I had developed for answering her emails, the expensive necklace I had left her before Amsterdam. Oh God, not the lock of hair! My face felt like it was on fire. I turned my head away, humiliated, wanting to melt into the bar counter or evaporate into thin air. Shit, the t-shirt. I bit my lip, hard. Somewhere in the back a door slammed shut. Right, this is it, I realized and could almost hear my heart shatter. Taste of blood in my mouth. You blew it. Why did he have to call me here? Part of me wished he had just left without a word. How the hell could I ever redeem myself? How would he ever look at me the same way? How could he still sit here and talk to me? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris sighed. “Look, I get it, okay. I know I was away for a long time and I know how fucked up you were and how shit life is. I get it. Honestly. I also get that you can be in love with more than one person at a time and I know you can have different loves but - just tell me this,” He placed his hand on my arm and I forced myself to look at him. His eyes cut mine, sharp, imploring gaze, “Do you ever regret it? Do you ever wish it was her not me you’re with?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” I answered immediately. His question had knocked some sense into me, the same way his slaps used to bring me back from the insensate glue-sniffing highs on the playground or a punch in the arm that woke me when the class finished. “No, Boris. No. I’m not - Look, I’m - this thing with Pippa, what I felt, what I wrote in those journals? It’s just - it’s such a fucking mess. It’s completely - “ I shook my head, “I mean, I’ve talked about this in therapy for ages and I guess I’m only now starting to see how confused and fucked up I really was, and whatever it was, it wasn’t real love, Boris. Christ, I hardly knew her! I had these bits and pieces that I liked about her which I then amplified and added all these other things I wanted her to be, like, for so long I was convinced her favorite drink was hot chocolate because that’s what I wanted the Pippa in my head to be, and I only found out last year she doesn’t even like sweet drinks! I mean, I’m such a dick! Even all these things I bought her, I bet she wouldn’t even care for half of them, and all this time I thought I knew her so well, that I was the only one who really knew her, really loved her, when in reality I knew her the least. Even what I felt for her was just - it’s just really fucking messed up. I mean, I saw her right before the explosion, she practically saved my life! And that just - I don’t know, apparently it’s quite common for trauma survivors to cling onto these, these small insignificant details, you know?” I turned to Boris for the first time in what seemed like hours; he looked at me seriously, deep frown on his face, hardly blinking. But no disgust, no hatred. I continued, “Well, that’s apparently what I did, only I never told anyone about it so no one could tell me it wasn’t real. And afterwards - well afterwards, it only got more complicated. When I got back to New York, I mean, I don’t wanna blame you, Boris, seriously, but I fucking waited for you. I really did. And I knew you wouldn’t come, I told myself that a million times, but I still waited. I took all these stupid Russian literature classes thinking I’d tell you all about it when you finally show up. I’d take you to all these places and tell you how much I missed you, but you never fucking came. And after a while I just blocked you out. And everything we had in Vegas. So, I don’t know. Maybe what I felt for Pippa was just the love I felt for you but you weren’t there to receive it. And I couldn’t admit it was you I missed so I told myself it was Pippa. Made up this story in my head, got in too deep.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I let out a slow exhale and tapped the counter with my middle finger. Boris still sat silently, eyes fixed on me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And it’s - You’re right. There’s still some weird feelings regarding her, it doesn’t go away just like that but it’s different now. Or maybe it’s been like this the whole time, I don’t know, but everything I feel for her is so muddled up with all these other things I associate with her, the explosion and my mother and that afternoon at Hobie’s, and she herself is even after all those years so distant or like - I don’t really know, like some dream or like - from a distance it’s perfect but when you step closer it all dissolves into brushstrokes, an illusion. But it’s not like that with you. It doesn’t matter how close we are, if we haven't talked in a decade, it doesn’t change. It’s kinda funny actually when you think about it. It seems like what I feel for you should be more messed up, what with our history and your job and that we’re - you know, both guys, but -” I shrugged and smiled faintly, “it’s so clear and simple. It’s like everything around us doesn’t really matter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I glanced up. He looked at me with a strange mixture of sorrow and understanding and something else I couldn’t quite discern. Maybe it was the lights in the bar glittering in his dark eyes, but he seemed almost fragile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you don’t regret being with me? Even how I am now?” he asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No! Never! Why would you even ask that? If anything, I’m the one who’s -” I shook my head slightly. “You know how I feel, I told you that already, what do I have to do to get you to believe me, ask you to marry me?” I had blurted it out as a joke, but as it hung in the air between us, I realized I was perfectly serious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris eyebrows shot up, his eyes widened. But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile, he only stared at me. The chatter and music around us seemed to be coming from another world, muffled, indistinct; the lights in the corner of my vision grew large and unfocused, the figures behind Boris’s head like wraiths with clouded edges. Only Boris retained his clarity, seemingly the only person who had stayed with me in the world of the living; or, who knows, maybe it was us two who had left this planet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I will.” I added quietly, afraid to break the bubble we were floating in. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re serious,” he said at last. Not a question. Realization. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence. Then, with a big gulp, Boris drowned his beer, put the bottle on the counter with a heavy clunk and stood up. He placed his hand on my elbow and gave me a short unreadable nod. I got up. I expected him to say something, punch me, laugh in my face, but he only started walking towards the exit, dodging the tables with a firm step and gently pulling me with him. We walked the street in silence, I could feel him throwing an occasional glance at me but I didn’t dare to see the look on his face so I kept my eyes on the concrete straight ahead. Cigarette buds and old gum, my hands stuffed deep in pockets, waiting for God knows what. I let Boris walk half-a-step ahead and, surprisingly, he led us to our apartment building. At the elevator doors, he stepped aside to let me in first and pressed the button to our floor. The doors closed with a familiar creak. With a few quick forceful steps, he had me pressed against the wall before I had a chance to register what was happening; his hands digging into my hips, his lips ferociously pressed on mine, sharp inhale through the nose. I grabbed hold of his arm to balance myself and, forgetting everything I had ever known, opened my mouth, blood gushing in my ears, there could be a flood after us just please God let me have this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Too soon we reached our floor and Boris pulled away. He cleared his throat and straightened his jacket while I stood with my knees shaking, blinking slowly, hands falling stupidly to my sides, empty and lost without Boris to clutch on to. But there was no one on the other side. Just the bare dim hallway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris turned to me and smiled, “You know, I’ll say yes. When the time comes,” and taking my hand, led us home. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As we lay in bed that night, Boris suddenly shifted behind me and rested his chin on my bare shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Potter,” he whispered, “you asleep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh? Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stroked his hand across my chest and seemed to be considering something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it?” I asked, eyes closed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s Julia?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I opened my eyes and turned my head to see him, “What Julia?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was in your journals. The first girl you mention after Vegas who isn’t Pippa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” I turned my head back to the pillow. “No one. It doesn’t matter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No? It seems you went there pretty often. C’mon,” he nudged me with his foot, “I won’t be mad or anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just some girl I was sleeping with.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? Your first girl? That’s good, why’d you say it doesn’t matter? So,” he added when I didn’t say anything, “how was it? Was she better than me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am serious! Did she at least know what she was doing? Cos we sure didn’t, ha!” he chuckled; then rapped the side of my head with his knuckles after another reply of silence from me, “Earth to Potter! Is an honest question! I want to know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was fine. Can you just drop it? I want to sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong? Potter? What she do?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” I turned to my back and sighed. I wasn’t even sure why I didn’t want to talk about it but something thick seemed to be stuck deep in my throat, blocking the words. Boris propped himself up on one elbow and kept one hand on my chest. It was hard to swallow. “It’s just - I don’t know. It was pretty much right after Vegas and it was just sex and she had a boyfriend and she was older than me and - I don’t know. It’s not like I didn’t like it or - It’s just not my fondest memory.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How much older?” Boris asked. I knew from the sound of his voice he had drawn his eyebrows together in his serious, slightly worried way, trying to make out the look on my face in the darkness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ten years. I think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long did it last?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why does it matter? Half a year? A bit more. Do we have to talk about it?” I turned to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he kissed me on the corner of my mouth before lying down next to me and wrapping one arm tightly around me. “No, we don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. Go to sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turned my back to him and let him snuggle close like he did, his mouth pressed to my back. But I couldn’t sleep. And by the sound of it, neither could he.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not mad, are you?” My voice slashed the silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” his hand that rested against my chest shifted, “No. You don’t wanna talk about it. I get it. I’ve had a few Julias myself in the years.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” I wasn’t sure what to say to that. It didn’t seem he wanted to talk about it anymore than I did. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am now,” He said and pressed a small kiss on the nape of my neck. I turned around to wrap my arm around him for a change, “Me too.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>tell me what you thought!!!! good or bad I lovelovelovelove to talk about my writing either here or on tumblr</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Everything was two now. Two pairs of shoes by the front door (</span>
  <em>
    <span>No shoes inside! </span>
  </em>
  <span>demanded Boris), two tea mugs drying next to the sink, two takeaway cartons from the same Chinese restaurant my mother used to stop by on her way home (lo mein for me, egg foo yung and rice for Boris). Two toothbrushes sitting in a cup in the bathroom, two head shaped imprints on one pillow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The days were pretty much what they always were - slow, dusty afternoons in the shop, client meetings uptown, auctions and estate sales - insignificant and blurred, a waiting game, pushed together and shoved into the oblivion drawer of my memory; whereas the nights of that summer flare out - lucid, intense, eternal. At home or going out, our nights had a rich perilous edge to them, even sober far more glorious than any of the drug infused highs I had been chasing for the past ten years; it was all bright lights and long summer sunsets, laughter and vodka flushed cheeks, gold and indigo. Intoxicating August midnight air gliding through the open bedroom window, curtains trembling, pearls of sweat on his neck, hand in feverish hand pressed against the pillow. We both knew the summer wouldn’t last but the temporality and thrill of it made us feel like we were liberated from all constraints of time. Hours had no meaning, days, weeks, it was only being with him or waiting for him; breakfast at midnight, beer and stale pizza for morning. For the first time in years I felt younger than I really was, everything seemed possible all of a sudden and us - together - invincible; stumbling through the park in the middle of the night, ducking into alleyways giddy and light-headed, the sweet burn of his skin on my fingertips; making out on the fire escape in the early hours of the morning, bottle knocked over, honey-colored champagne foaming down the rusty steps, catching clinquant streaks of the first rays of sun. City lights glimmering on wet hot asphalt, red and yellow, golden orange, magenta; Boris’s head heavy on my shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We were wild for one another, sending ridiculous texts like teenagers passing notes in class, whispering in bar corners, sneaking in tiny touches, casual enough that from the outside we seemed nothing more but a pair of good friends yet always threading that precarious electrifying line: his hand on my shoulder that guided me through the club door would make a short scorching pause on my lower back before sliding away, ever so casually my fingers would brush against his, lingering only a fraction of a second too long. His hand on my thigh under the table, a stolen glance from the other end of the room, walking down the street our shoulders bumped together, instinctively pulled towards one another. Like playing with fire, a step too far and your cover is blown, already I had detected one or two side glances from Boris’s friends and tried to talk to him about it but he didn't seem as troubled by it as I was. Not to mention the horrifying moment when we ran into Cavanaugh and Scheffernan - still thick as thieves as they had been in school - on our way out from a club, Boris’s hand on the small of my back, laughing with our heads so close our noses almost touched. Petrified, I pushed Boris away so harshly he stumbled over some trash cans; swearing under his breath and trying to wipe unidentifiable goo off his shoe while I bumped fists with Cavanaugh, heart pounding in my chest. It took me hours of pampering that night to make amends to Boris.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some nights, when we were all dressed up and ready to go out, we would forget ourselves by the kitchen table talking until early dawn, cold tea and half empty pack of saltines sitting in front of us, hardly noticing the hours pass. He made a habit of asking about my day when we met up after work - whether at home, some bar or that small curry place down the street - seemingly interested in every dull detail. Whenever I asked about his, however, I couldn’t help feeling he was avoiding something. It was hard to tell, he always told some incident in such a detailed and humorous way, only later did I realize that except for that one short circumstance, I hadn’t the vaguest idea what he had been doing all day. But I didn’t want to ask either. Once or twice I came close to reminding him of the promise he had made in Petersburg of quitting his job, but I didn’t want to seem like some nagging wife so I kept my mouth shut, afraid of coming off as restricting. And why would I say anything? Except for a few calls in the middle of the night, a few panicked evenings when I got home to an empty apartment and he didn’t answer his phone, everything was perfect. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>One evening, not too long after he had moved in, we were laying in bed. Boris was propped up on one elbow with his other arm extended over my chest and thoughtfully looked out the open window at the small airplane soundlessly ascending the evening sky; gleaming orange for a brief second before disappearing behind pink sunset clouds. He had dark bags under his eyes - I couldn’t remember the last time we had had a proper night's sleep - and seemed grave and slightly melancholy looming above me like that, half of his features covered in shadows, the hook shaped scar above his eye almost luminescent in the dim light, eyes turned towards some invisible distant horizon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you like New York?” I asked out of the blue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mh? New York?” he glanced down and for a moment regarded me seriously. “I like the you in it,” he then concluded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laughed. “What does that mean? You didn’t like me in Vegas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he laughed along, warm, quiet laugh, reserved only for nights like this, “Is not what I meant. I meant I like New York because of you. Ever since I’ve known you, it’s like someone stuck a big red pin on the map right where New York is. A really big pin with flashing lights and sirens. New York means you,” he smiled and leaned down to kiss me; then - abruptly pulling away - “but is not my favorite city, Antwerp is better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too big, too noisy. Antwerp is more classy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Manhattan isn’t classy enough for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha! Well, yes and no. Everyone here thinks they’re the best just because they live here. People in Antwerp aren’t like that, they’re more welcoming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this your way of trying to convince me to move to Antwerp with you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You asked! And I don’t have to convince you, you’re already coming,” he smiled, tracing his thumb over my jawline before giving me a sudden light slap on the cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pushed his hand away. “Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you promised. And because I say so. I will smack you on the head and stuff you in a trunk but I will get you there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laughed at that. “How are you gonna get a car to Europe? Are we gonna take the ship? I’ll suffocate in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll poke a few air holes in the lid, you’ll be fine. But seriously,” he added when both our laughter had faded away, “I thought you liked Antwerp?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I flicked him on the nose with my thumb and forefinger and smiled, “I like the you in it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled and settled down next to me, his mouth pressed against the back of his hand that clutched my shoulder. For a few minutes we lay in silence, our breaths in unison. Anonymous bumps and clatter from the apartment above us, indistinct snippets of conversation floating up from the street, rustle of the blanket as Boris moved his leg over mine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifted his head slightly, his hair tickling my cheek, “You working tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s Wednesday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t you take the day off? I don’t have anything, we could do something nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, not really,” I answered, not bothering to open my eyes, “I have a meeting at noon and we’re gonna go over to the storage with Grisha after that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t you bail? It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t school, Boris, I can’t skip class just because you wanna stay by the pool and sniff glue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhaled and turned to his back but didn’t say anything. I opened my eyes and glanced at him, it had grown significantly darker by then, the edges of his features blurred with the wall behind him. I got up and closed the window; when I climbed back in bed, I draped my arm over his waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can ask Grisha to take me in the morning then I’d be back by one or two latest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next day the closed sign on the shop window stayed up and Grisha and I took the van to Brooklyn. He had his old hip-hop CD on and was swaying along to the beat, thrumming on the steering wheel with one hand, the other one hanging out the car window, loosely holding a cigarette. I had a slight headache and the greasy smell in the van along with the exhaust fumes and endless blaring of car horns coming in the open window only made it worse. We stopped at a street light; homeless guys with their backs leaned against a bank building staring at traffic, a schoolkid waiting to cross the road, deep frown on his face, backpack twice the size of his torso. With a hollow sinking feeling in my stomach, I remembered that this street wasn’t too far from Andy’s old Japanese class. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mazhor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “ Grisha said with a hard slap on my shoulder that made me jump on my seat. “Got a date tonight?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What makes you say that?” I asked. The light turned green and slowly we started moving through the traffic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You moved our trip to morning. Thought you wanted to clear the afternoon for your toilette, no?” He glanced at me with a joking grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I scoffed, “Nothing of the sort.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No? I thought you’re free now? Finished with the rich girl? Turned her down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah-yeah, that’s over.” I looked out the window as we crossed the bridge to Brooklyn, the sky was a bright summer blue, edging on white and hurting my eyes. The tall building blocks lining the East River seemed to shimmer with heat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also, not sure if I should mention this or not, but figured it'd better to be on the safe side,” Grisha cleared his throat pointedly; curious, I looked over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hobie’s been telling me about your friend that’s been coming over, old school friend or something? Very attached to the dog?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, the thing is, I happened to see him a few days ago near the shop and I realized I’ve seen that guy before. He’s the one that came asking about you, remember? Year or so ago?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I don’t mean to pry, your business is your business and I’m not judging, you know, do whatever you want but just to make sure, you’re not - well, better come out with it I guess - is everything, you know,” he peered at me; I realized my hands had grown clammy, “straight and proper?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need to get worked up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mazhor, </span>
  </em>
  <span>okay? Like I said, I’m not really asking. He just looks the kind of guy who might know some guys, you know? Have connections.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, frankly, I don’t know. He’s just an old friend, happened to be in town, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, well, it’s just Genka and I have our thing going on, yes? And you don’t have to tell me anything, I’m just asking - as a friend - if we should be on our guard? Because if anyone comes snooping around, for whatever reason, I’d like to be prepared, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” I was hardly following him by then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I don’t know what you’re doing and I don’t want to know, it’s all good as long as you and I keep a small eye out for each other, yes? Nothing major, all I’m asking you’d let me know if the ground grows too warm. Cos that guy, he might be your friend or he might be your whatever - is not my business - but he looks like the kind of guy who’s not messing around, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>he knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>people. The kind of people you don’t really want to be knowing. And, I mean, I thought you cleared everything up on your side but if you have anything cooking, I’d just appreciate it if the oil didn’t spray on my side of the kitchen. You know what I mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Right,” I wasn’t sure if it’d be safer to correct him or not. “It’s all good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s fine. No - no cooking here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, that’s good. Hey,” he slapped me on the shoulder again and gave an intense glare, “you and me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mazhor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, we got each other’s backs, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Sure.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>When I told Boris about this exchange, he found it simply hilarious but I couldn't help feeling bothered about it. It was a cold reminder that the way I saw Boris wasn’t the way he was perceived generally, and although it seemed Grisha was oblivious to the real extent of my relationship with Boris, he wasn’t too far off either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few days later as I got home from work, I was greeted by Boris who slid off the kitchen counter and threw his arms around me, munching on a chunk of cucumber. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, you’re here. Let’s get going, Toly’s back from Germany, I need to talk to him,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think? Out! Old Polack’s, come on, hop-hop!” he said and gave a hard slap on my ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow! Fucker!” I shoved him in the shoulder, he grinned and expertly dodged my kick aimed at his behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am serious, though, Gyuri’s waiting, let’s go.” He walked through the kitchen to the front door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, Boris,” I followed him - “maybe you should go ahead first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” He was hopping on one leg in the hallway, tying his shoe, the half eaten cucumber peeking out of his jacket pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just think we should be more careful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I leaned against the wall, folded my arms over my chest and regarded him seriously. Boris finally got the shoe on, put his leg down and lifted his head, blowing a lock of hair from his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” He frowned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you, didn’t I? About what Grisha said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pff, that was nothing!” dismissive wave of the hand - “He wasn’t even talking about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still. And last Friday, remember? What the girl said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What girl?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The short blonde one at the bar. The one you flirted with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wasn’t flirting!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. The point is, if we always show up together it’s starting to get too obvious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, let it! I don’t see a problem! I can tell everyone tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” I almost shouted. He looked at me surprised, eyebrows raised, then frowned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, I just -” I started but he interrupted me, “So what? You’re gonna take the cab? Pretend you haven’t seen me for a week?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shrugged, “Something like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something like that.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment of uncomfortable silence ensued between us, then he sighed and checked his watch. “Fine, take the cab then, I don’t care, but I gotta go now,” he said and turned around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see you there,” I answered quickly but he was already out the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I got to the bar, about an hour after he had left, the place was already filled like it always was on Friday nights, mostly with Boris’s friends or at least people linked to his organization in some way. I was greeted by drunk Dima by the door, who flung his arm around my shoulder and promised in very broken English to buy me a drink. Since the place was so packed, it took me a while to spot Boris and when I finally did, I wished I hadn’t. He was sitting in one of the booths lining the back wall, his arm around a woman who looked vaguely familiar: bobbed dark brown hair, tight black dress with dangerously low cleavage. His head was bent close to her ear, apparently whispering something hilarious since a short while later the woman laughed with her head thrown back. It seemed she had her hand on his knee but it was hard to tell that far away. I landed on an empty bar stool next to Myriam and, keeping my eyes on Boris, asked her: “Who’s that girl?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced over her shoulder at who I was looking, then back at me, “That’s Candy. Part of Horst’s group.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Horst? I thought you guys didn’t work with him anymore?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t, but apparently neither does she. Or she never did really, she just helped out because Niall works for Horst but they broke up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They did? When was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quite recently, I suppose. She hasn’t been here before. Frankly, I’m not really sure how she got here tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wonder,” I said glumly, but I had a pretty clear idea who had invited her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You two had a fight or something?” Myriam asked with a slightly amused smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now you’re acting like a pair of middle-schoolers, trying to make each other jealous?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not doing anything! He is!” I couldn’t help exclaiming at that unfair assessment. She laughed and reached over the bar counter for a bottle of vodka to refill my glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You two really are something.” She filled both our glasses to the brim, then looked at me, half serious, half humorously, “Look, I’m not saying what he’s doing right now is smart, but neither is what you’re doing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite having seen Myriam fairly frequently over the past month - during which we had become almost something like friends - I still found her impossible to read, which wasn’t helped by the fact I hardly knew anything about her, even though she knew disturbingly much about me. I always thought she was well over thirty by the way she spoke, especially the way she spoke to Boris, who she treated like a younger brother, and only found out a few weeks ago she was actually a couple of years younger than me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not as easy as it looks,” I said grimly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not. But I don’t think it’s as difficult as you make it out to be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That could have been a fair judgement but I was in no mood to think wisely. Instead, I drowned the vodka, forcefully keeping my eyes from travelling to the back corner, where - as I knew without looking - Boris was whispering nonsense to Candy’s ear, his breath devilishly warm on her neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Myriam left shortly after to talk to someone more companionable and I sat sulking over my drink. The side of my hand felt gross from leaning on the sticky bar counter, the fat Russian guy sitting next to me reeked of sweat and the awful Easter European 90s trance music made my ears ring. I felt sick and wanted to go home but I couldn’t leave Boris with Candy who, as I now remembered, he had told me about way before, and their trip to Coney Island. But confronting him or asking him to come home with me seemed equally bad. As I was pondering on the possible things to say to Boris if I’d walk up to their table - something sharp and sarcastic but with a sly innuendo - I suddenly caught a familiar voice, drifting through the music and polyglot chatter, ordering drinks in Polish. Boris had come back to me. Immense relief swept through me and I smiled to myself, but when I turned my head to look at him, my voice stumbled in my throat - he still had his arm around Candy’s waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to me with a sarcastic look of surprise: “Oh! Look who’s here! Didn’t see you come in. Candy, you know my friend Potter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Candy peeked at me behind Boris’s back, her hand still on his shoulder, “No, I don’t think so. Hi there!” she smiled at me, a sincerely warm and friendly smile, clearly saying that any friend of Boris’s is a friend of hers. I wanted to throw my drink at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” I said instead and forced a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boris took the beers from the bartender, handed one to Candy and turned to me indifferently as to a distant cousin, pressing Candy closer to his side, “Candy works as a nurse at Lenox Hill, she took out my stitches when I fell through a window a few years back, been friends ever since! Such delicate hands, hardly felt a thing! Still friends with the guy who pushed me through that window too in a matter of fact, if he hadn’t, we probably wouldn’t have gotten talking. Took her to the zoo the next day, she did save my life practically and all! Still remember when you came down those steps -” talking to Candy now, approving whistle - “stunning! No woman looks like that! And straight from a shift too! Amazing!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Candy giggled, “It wasn’t at the hospital, remember, we were at Horst’s. Cos you didn’t get the -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a good time!” Boris interrupted her, threw a quick sideways glance at me, then back to her, laughing, “Remember the monkeys? The tiny ones? What they called again? And the elephant with the banana! She can talk to animals, you know,” - turning to me now, something forced about his laughter and the way he swung the bottle, a little too enthusiastic - “And knit sweaters! What a multitalent! You ever heard that? A woman like her knitting sweaters! And not just any sweaters, the best ones out there!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Candy laughed and gave a playful slap on his shoulder, bending her head disgustingly close to Boris’s, “Stop! They’re just regular sweaters!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Involuntarily, I rolled my eyes, sick of seeing Boris flirt with random women at bars. I turned back to my drink while they continued their conversation on good old times and sweaters, remember Janusz with the Christmas one, oh and the dinner after! baked potatoes and a whole roasted pig, you still have the photo we took? God, what a fun night! A group of guys cheered loudly somewhere behind us, I wanted to take the now empty vodka bottle Myriam had left on the counter and hurl it at them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But that reminds me,” I heard Candy say playfully, “I still haven’t made you one! You have to come by some day for measurements.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, whenever!” Boris answered, almost shouting now. “Just give me a call! You live close by now, yah? Dutch Kills?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, how about tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My head snapped up. The air stilled. Surely not. I glanced over and for a minuscule moment, my eyes met Boris’s before they flicked away as though guilty of eavesdropping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” I heard him say. I looked back at him but he wasn’t looking at me anymore, only her. “Why not?” He smiled and kissed her. On the lips. Right in front of me. </span>
</p><p><span>For a moment, I just sat there staring at them, still going at it. Paralyzed. Helpless. Two-week-corpse stiff. Bashed on the head with </span><em><span>what the absolute mother fuck??</span></em><span> I felt queasy. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run away. Then, with no warning whatsoever something fierce and torrid erupted somewhere deep inside me, a black curtain dropped before my eyes, the ringing in my ears rose to an agonizing degree, an intense impulse to jump between them and press my mouth to Boris’s took hold of me as if I could erase the touch of her lips with mine. </span><em><span>Nonononono</span></em> <em><span>fuck you, fuck this, this isn’t happening.</span></em><span> The next moment I was standing, my breaths sharp and fast, hot blood gushing through my ears, my eyes still fixed on them, who were now both facing me; a completely innocent look on her face, but something deeper and darker lurking in Boris’s eyes, something akin to anticipation. </span></p><p>
  <span>I tore my eyes from him and looked at the bottles behind the counter instead. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Russkii Standart, Smirnoff, Jack Daniels, Bacardi</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’ll smash them all on the ground, flood the floors with booze and shards of glass, howl like a wounded animal, strangle someone, kick over chairs and tear those stupid Polish posters and vintage guitars off the walls. Instead, I cleared my throat and, with shaking hands, finished my drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Candy, who seemed to be finally sensing some tension, said, “how do you guys know each other again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boris furrowed his brow and shot me a sharp glance that made him look like he was trying to recall where we had met but was actually a challenge to me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you gonna say it or should I?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Us two?” I looked at Candy then Boris. He was standing so close I could have reached out my hand and pulled him away from her, back to my side, his only proper place, a chorus of </span>
  <em>
    <span>mineminemine</span>
  </em>
  <span> banging in my head. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t say anything you’re not specifically asked, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the lawyer my dad had played advised his client. The grand foyer of the courthouse. Black marble pillars, my dad hurrying up the stairs, sharp suit, hair combed back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, come on. Just stop it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I took a deep breath. I bit the inside of my lip. I leaned my elbow on the counter and shrugged with one shoulder, “Just old school friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boris, clearly disappointed, gave a wry smile, “Yeah, nothing much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was nice to meet you.” I told Candy. It was funny how easy it had suddenly become to smile at the same person I had wanted to punch in the face just a moment ago. I turned around and left. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Boris came home almost three hours after me; I heard him stumble through the room and climb in bed but pretended to be asleep. He hadn’t woken up by the time I left in the morning. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter is a little short cos it turned out too long so I cut it into two, the second part should be out in a few weeks (hopefully)<br/>as always, let me know what you thought, your comments honestly make my day every time &lt;3 and check out the fic <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2VGzzJHuVtouQmd90pT21P?si=0GWF2kntSP61WJGTH7U8eQ">playlist</a>, lots of new songs this time!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Is that from the same collection?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I was in the shop, showing some figurines to an interior designer. The room was filled with warm sunlight - glinting off old silver drawer knobs, dressing table mirrors, small glass prisms hanging from the Venetian chandelier - but somehow it passed over me untouched, leaving me cold and miserable. The woman was holding up a delicate blue glass elephant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it Murano?” She asked again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, let me check,” I answered, knowing well that it was but I needed to get away from her for a minute. I walked to my desk with the figurine and leafed through a notebook I used to mark down Popper’s medicine dosages. Three hours. Why three hours? Not that it was unusual, we typically stayed out even longer than that, but I couldn’t make it out. If he had come back in the morning, it would be glaringly obvious, though I didn’t know what I would do with that knowledge. But now I had no knowledge at all. Three hours could be anything. He could’ve spent them in the bar, innocently flirting and playing pools before taking the cab home. Or - and every time my thought process reached that point, my stomach flipped and I had an urge to throw up - it was exactly enough time to make a short detour at her place. And another thing that bothered me: strictly speaking, we had never explicitly agreed to be exclusive and, even though I had thought of it as fairly obvious and at least had made my stance undeniably clear, from the stories he had told, Boris didn't seem to have much history with monogamous relationships. Nor was he the kind of guy to say no to a woman like Candy. I wanted to bang my head on the desk. Why had I left? Why hadn’t I asked him to come home with me? Why hadn’t I, the moment I saw them together, walked up and dragged him away? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Startled, I looked up from the notebook. It was the designer lady again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, sorry. Yes, yes it is,” I stood up and tried to hand her the figurine but she didn’t take it. I placed it on the desk instead with an awkward clunk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. I think I’ll have a look at some other shops, this just isn’t quite what I’m looking for.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With no feeling of regret I watched her leave, checked my phone for any messages (non from Boris) then took the figurine back to its original place. I stood by the shelf, wiping dust particles off the porcelain cows and sheep when the shop bell behind me rang and, to my surprise, it was Boris who walked in. We had agreed a while back he would stay away from the shop in case Hobie would start suspecting something, in turn I took Popchik home with me whenever we had planned to stay in for the night. He walked straight through the shop - giving no attention to my confused glare that followed him along - and went behind my desk where Popchik lay on his cushion, letting out a wild cry of joy at the sight of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kneeled on the floor, his back to me, cooing the dog. For a few minutes I just stood there, at the other end of the shop, watching him stroke Popper behind the ear, the only sound the soft murmur of his voice, saying something unintelligible to the dog. A pair of college student looking girls stopped in front of the shop, but luckily they decided not to come in. Hobie had gone out for lunch with Mrs. DeFrees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing here?” I finally asked, cautiously. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To see Popchik. Is not my fault you happen to work here too. Has he been for a walk today?” He scooped Popper in his arms and stood up, looking at me with a blank stare.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hobie takes him every morning. We agreed you wouldn’t come here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was hours ago, he needs fresh air,” Boris ignored the last line and looked around, “Where’s the leash?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Popper, who had happily snoozed in his arms until then, suddenly let out a piercing cry and floundered around, whimpering quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” Boris asked alarmed, his eyes darting between me and Popchik, trying to hold on to the flailing dog so he wouldn’t fall down, “What’s wrong, Snaps? Did I hurt you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You must have held him wrong.” With quick steps, I walked over and adjusted Popper’s hindlegs in Boris’s arms; he fell quiet again, pressing himself against Boris’s chest and shivering lightly. Boris stroked Popchik gently and mumbled comforting words in Polish. Streak of silver moonlight coming through the blinds, chlorine damp hair, Popchik’s calming weight on my chest, Boris’s warm hand clutching my side. His eyes, that had been fixed on the dog, travelled down to his forearm where my hand was still resting. Hastily, I pulled it away and took a step back.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s his back,” I started explaining to mask my confusion, “The vet said his arthritis is getting worse, you have to support the legs properly. And it takes forever to take him anywhere, he can’t walk fast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no, there will be no walking today,” Boris said, talking to the dog now. He gave Popchik a little kiss and rested his cheek atop of his head, just like he’d often do with me when we were watching TV late at night. “Prince </span>
  <em>
    <span>poustyshka</span>
  </em>
  <span> will only be carried from now on. Be back in an hour!” he said and walked out without a second glance at me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I went back to my desk and had a quiet hour waiting for customers while sorting through some shipping bills and thinking what to say to Boris when he’d return from the walk, when the shop bell rang again, but this time it was Arman who walked in; hair combed back in a trendy pompadour style, his dark navy suit not too flashy by regular standards but certainly too Wall-Streety for an antiques dealer. A bittersweet smell of cologne seemed to follow him around like an obnoxious cloud.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, long time!” he walked up to the desk with a bright confident smile, teeth so white they looked almost fake. “Haven’t seen you in ages, how are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Can I help you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see you’re not a fan of small talk,” he laughed then leaned closer with a conspiratory smile, “Well, the word on the street is you got an authentic Chippendale on your hands.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yes. Right this way.” I closed the books and led him through the shop, pleased to showcase our finest item: Chippendale’s 18th century marquetry dressing-bureau I had retrieved from an estate sale upstate, a fine elegant piece, reminiscent of golden autumn afternoons, empty summer houses, yellow leaves gathering on the front porch. It hadn’t been kept in the best of conditions but weeks of diligent labor in the workshop had managed to return it to its former glory. I’d placed it close to the windows, not too visible so it wouldn’t overpower everything else in the shop but conspicuous enough that you could catch a glimpse from the street and be intrigued to walk in; or stumble across it when looking for something completely different and feel like you’d discovered a treasure chest. On late afternoons, as the sun endowed its last warm ray upon it, a deep golden hue spread across its lacquer top and the shine in the corner caught everyone’s attention, revealing the piece in its most sincere colors - modest, but clearly the true star of the stage. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, would you look at that,” Arman eagerly stepped close and slid his hand over the top, then squatted down to admire the intricate patterns on the drawers and two cabinet doors on each side. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Look at those patterns, such detailed work. Absolutely stunning. What’s the door? Mahogany?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And the drawers?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Indian rosewood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s amazing.” He stood up again, stepped to the side and peeked behind the back, tracing his hand along the edge of the top. “You’ve really done a great job with the edges. Where did you get it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A family near Watervliet. Financial problems. The grandfather used to be quite a big name among collectors back in his day. Mansel? Ever heard?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah, I got an ottoman from a Mansel, young girl, probably related to your one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, the old guy died in the late nineties and most of his collection wasn’t properly looked after, this one was dumped in an unused guest room in the unrenovated part of the house, can you imagine?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The windows in the room were practically leaking, it got pretty bad humidity damage. We had to replace the bottom of the fierze drawer, the back legs were nearly rotten and one of the doors had a bad scratch, can you guess which one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? The doors?” He asked, eyes wide with surprise, giving him a silly, pufferfish kind of look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They look identical!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I knocked on the one on the right, failing to keep myself from smiling any longer. Hobie had allowed me to fix that door all by myself, only instructing me on the side, my first solo restoration on a piece of that scale. We had had a celebratory dinner at the local that night, Hobie telling the waitress all about my triumph, stopping by at Mrs. Cho’s on our way home to share the good news, joking about handing me over the workshop. Later, back in the house, he had opened a bottle of whiskey that had been saved for special occasions for almost a decade and told me about his first solo restoration; sitting on a pair of dining room chairs waiting for upholstering, the dim soothing light of the workshop, Hobie’s thoughtful, calm smile, sawdust prickling my nose. Rich aroma of the whiskey mixed with the smells of turpentine, oil paint and varnish forever soaked into the walls. I had never felt more proud about anything I had ever done in my life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re joking!” Arman crouched down again and took a small flashlight out of the inside pocket of his suit; shining light on the door, he examined it closely, “That’s incredible, it looks perfect! How did you do it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well -” I drew my breath, eager to start explaining but right then the shop bell rang again and Boris walked in, Popchik still in his arms. He looked surprised at the seemingly empty shop for a second, then noticed me in the corner and walked over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I let him walk around the park a bit but he got tired quickly so we went to have a sandwich. Did you know he loves tuna? I had a whole -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris stopped mid-sentence as Arman stood up, straightened his waistcoat and, with a dazzling smile, extended his hand towards Boris, “I don’t think we’ve met. Arman Rezaei.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris took his hand and after a quick glance at me, smiled just as brightly, “Boris Pavlikovsky, friend of Theo’s. Pleasure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Arman owns a shop near Madison,” I explained hastily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I guess you could say we’re colleagues,” Arman laughed and flashed a smile at me that felt like it was supposed to mean something but I had no idea what. Boris, however, seemed to have caught that, he was looking at me with a slightly quizzical </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who is this guy?</span>
  </em>
  <span> look while Arman turned back to the bureau, running his hand over the top. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We recently expanded the place, actually,” Arman was saying, while Boris looked between him and me, an imperceptible frown on his face. I was about to shake my head and shrug at him, our code for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck if I know,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but then remembered last night and looked away instead. “Bought the place next door and tore down the wall, more room for dinner tables and what not. You’re welcome to come around and have a look,” Arman continued, still running his hand over the top of the bureau; then raised his head and, looking at me, smiled again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. Thanks,” I replied. I could feel Boris’s eyes on me but I didn’t want to know what they were saying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come see the Mansel ottoman. Or I got some 17th century Japanese letter cases you might like. You busy tonight?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, we have plans,” Boris said swiftly. I turned to him in surprise and frowned, </span>
  <em>
    <span>We do?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, when you guys finish with your plans, I have a friend working in Tunnel Grand. Ever been there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think so.” Exclusive rooftop bars weren’t part of the scene Boris and I frequented. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s pretty packed usually but I could get you on the guestlist if you’re interested. You have my number, let me know, yeah?” He clasped my shoulder, flashed me another smile, gave a small nod to Boris and left. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chime of the shop bell that followed his departure echoed in the grand silence gulfing between Boris and me. Despite the sunny summer day glimmering behind the window just three feet from us, stretching its golden rays along the hardwood floor and climbing the table legs, the stillness of the room was taut, sharp. Empty cab driving past the shop, Popper yawning in Boris’s arms. Without looking at Boris, I walked back to my desk and sat down. I heard his footsteps following me. From the corner of my eye, I saw him placing Popper carefully on his cushion, setting a bowl of water in front of him and, while the dog drank, squatting on the floor watching him. I took the packet of old bills I had intended to throw out and started flipping through them, pretending to be busy. The rustle of the paper felt unnaturally loud. After what seemed like quarter of an hour he cleared his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that revenge for last night?” His voice was detached and slightly hoarse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My hands stopped but I didn’t lift my eyes. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know he’s into you, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I looked up, baffled, and turned in my chair to stare at him. “What? That guy? No, he’s not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, he is.” Boris stood up, walked over and perched on the side of my desk, picked up my pen and twirled it in his hand. “Why was he here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To see the Chippendale.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grinned at me mockingly, “Is that an antiques code for a blowjob or something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not denying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re delusional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because if you’re messing around with him, I swear I will -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re gonna what? Punch me in the face?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not you. Him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Up until then a part of me still thought he was joking but at that line I recognized the intensity of his glare, hunting down innocent freshmen who tried to buy weed from Kotku. I flung the bundle of bills on the desk and sat back in the chair, lifted my chin just so and looked at him disdainfully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. And what should I do with Candy, then?” I kept my voice calm and cool, with only a hint of contempt. The same condescending tone I had heard my father use once when he suspected my mom was having an affair. This is the way to deal with a situation like this. After all, it wasn’t the first time for me. No need for emotions, the more I distance myself from this, the easier it will be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Candy?” He frowned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where were you last night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I came home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For three hours? Look -” I said over him when he started to explain, “Save me the details. Do what you want, I know we never explicitly agreed on anything, but we could at least set some ground rules.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What rules?” he threw the pen back on the desk, his voice becoming heated - “What do you mean we didn’t agree on anything? The fuck you on about?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re sleeping around, I would at least like to make sure I’m not contracting anything,” I said coldly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyebrows shot up, dumbfounded. He opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. Closed it. Then, slowly, a deep frown appeared on his face, his eyes seemed to grow darker and darker as the silence between us lengthened, every fibre in him seemed to stiffen. He looked at me for what felt like an eternity. I thought he was going to punch me. At the very least, I wished he would yell at me. The intense quiet was beginning to hurt my ears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not sleeping around,” he said at last so seriously I felt ashamed. “Why would I? I have you. I don’t want anyone else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence. I didn’t know what to say. I felt rotten, mortified, like a child caught stealing for the first time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You asked about last night. After you left, I played darts for a few hours and then took the cab home. That’s it. Ask Myriam, ask anyone. Last I saw Candy, she was still in the bar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His honest gaze burned me, saw straight through my tainted layers all the way down to my foul core. I nodded slowly and turned my eyes to the bundle of papers in front of me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would never cheat on you. How could you even think that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because you did.” I hadn’t meant to say that, it just slipped out. A long hidden truth. Without any conscious command, my eyes flicked back up to his face. He looked at me with genuine confusion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? When?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never mind.” I said quietly and started to get up but he put a hand on my shoulder; I fell back in the chair defeated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No-no, you brought this up, you can’t walk away now. Tell me. When did I cheat on you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t. Forget it.” I looked at everything but him. Brass floor lamp, walnut cheval glass in the corner, line of chairs, shop bell above the front door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sighed. “It just felt like it. Kotku.” I looked up timidly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He frowned, “Kotku?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you, it’s not important.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No-no, tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s stupid, it’s not even - it’s really not important, I just -” deep breath - “I thought we were all good! Like - I mean, we weren’t really anything, I know that, but I thought we were good as we were. We had our routine, the stuff we did together, eating together, at school. It was nice. But then you just left. I don’t know. I guess I felt like you ditched me or something,” the last words came out quick and muffled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo,” he said slowly after several long beats, “we weren’t good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, we were.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, we weren’t. Okay, most times, yes, it was nice, we had fun, had each other’s backs, great pals, but other times?” He shook his head - “You wanna know how I felt back then? How you made me feel sometimes? Like shit. Every night you’d get drunk off your ass, laughing like crazy one minute, crying and laying down on the road the next, telling me all these things at third. Stuff you wouldn’t tell normally. How much I meant to you, how glad you were to have met me, how no one was like I was to you. You’d put your head on my shoulder or take my hand on the sofa or let me hold you but every morning, </span>
  <em>
    <span>every fucking morning </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’d pretend like it never happened! Felt like I was making this whole thing up. And when I’d do something completely innocent like put my arm around your shoulder or God forbid! stand too close to you next to the lockers, you’d give me this look like I - like I molested you or something. What was I supposed to feel? It hurt me. I didn’t know what to do or say or - that’s why I went with Kotku. I don’t know, maybe - maybe part of me hoped it would force you to say something, you know. Acknowledge what we had. But you didn’t. And, to be honest, it was nice to be with someone who was same in the morning as they were at night. And -” he swallowed and shrugged with one shoulder, “what you said yesterday, about arriving separately to the bar? It was like Vegas all over again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If it would have been possible to feel any more like a piece of horse shit, I would have. How hadn’t I caught that? All those drunken nights on the playground, clouds spinning above my head, the pool, messing around in front of the TV and the rushed, inebriated intimacy I had both longed and feared. The quiet of the mornings after I had mistaken for companionable silence, telling myself it was just a laugh, not a big deal, nothing worth mentioning. How had I missed all this hurt confronting me even a decade later?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck.” I wasn’t sure what to say, nothing could make this better. But a part of me was massively relieved. “So you only flirted with Candy to piss me off?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raised his head defiantly, “To make you say something! To stop hiding and lying, to show that - that I mean something too!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You do,” I answered quickly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well it doesn’t fucking feel like that!” he blurted out and then, looking away, sighed; he brought one hand to the back of his neck and, rubbing it distractedly, stared at the floor. “You know how happy you made me when you said you’d marry me?” He continued quietly, brow furrowed, “I thought finally. Finally I’m not the one dragging you along. You are the one saying something, doing something. And the past few weeks have been fun, they really have! But it feels like some kind of a joke to you, like we’re hiding it just for fun. All this sneaking around. And yesterday?” he looked at me, his hand fell heavily to his lap - “Was like we travelled back ten years, all the way back to Vegas. Why are you so good to me at home, but so cold when we go out? Why do you care so much what people think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that’s the fucking million dollar question, isn’t it?” I sighed and stopped, thinking this through. “I’m not like you,” I continued carefully, “I’m not proud of who I am or what I’ve done and - It’s just so much easier to have people judging someone I’m not than to defend who I really am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Defend from who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, it’s those - I mean, it’s not even that, but remember those guys we bumped into a few nights back? The ones I went to school with?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean the night you pushed me into the dumpster?” He smiled faintly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Sorry about that. It’s just that those guys weren’t particularly nice in school.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They bullied your friend Andy, yes? You told me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not just him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I wasn’t even entirely sure why I was saying these things but it felt like hitting a nail on the head. Sharp pinch in the pit of the stomach. All of a sudden I felt small and exposed like I was ten again, choking on tears, trying to explain to my mother what had happened in that locker room after they had pushed Andy against the wall unconscious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t tell me that,” Boris finally said quietly. I didn’t dare look up. I pulled the sleeves of my sweater over my hands and rubbed my forehead with one hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t really matter, I didn’t get it as bad as Andy. It was only one year or so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was years ago, I don’t even know why I’m -” I let out a shaky breath and cleared my throat; straightened my back, blinked hard twice, wiped invisible crumbs off my lap. “It’s just - some of the things they called me and what they did to me and I - I couldn’t do anything about it!” I laughed though I suddenly felt like crying. “And no one can. You can’t do - My mom would talk to the school and their parents and you’d only get it worse the next day, it’s just easier not to say anything. It’s just - “ I bit the inside of my lip, vision blurred. “It’s just easier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo - “ he reached out his hand, I ducked my shoulder away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t. I’m fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, listen,” he put his hand on my shoulder, his grip so tight it almost hurt, “those guys? They’re bastards. And I can send someone after them, no no,” he said over me - “Am serious. I will. Your enemy is my enemy, remember? But you can’t let them keep their power over you. You’re stronger than that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes you are. I know you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I smiled despite myself but couldn’t keep it going for long; I brought my hand to my face pretending to scratch my nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you know that?” I finally asked quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cos I know you,” he said simply. I looked up; there was no pity in his eyes, just the familiar steady loving gaze. Relieved, I put my hand atop of his on my shoulder and squeezed it tightly. “Besides,” he added, “you got me now, no one will dare do anything. Let them try, ha! I’ll kick their arses!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My laughter blurted out like I was trying to hold in a sneeze. I wiped my nose with the end of my sleeve and, leaning back in the chair, exhaled and shook my head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. Honestly. For what I said yesterday. And for not knowing how you felt in Vegas, I should’ve noticed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it’s not like I acted perfect, either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still. I should know better than to put you through this again, I don’t want you to feel like that. Like I don’t care, because, you know - I really do. And I don’t want to make you lie,” I added, after some thought. “Not to your friends at least.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raised his eyebrows in surprise, “You mean -?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can tell them. If you want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? You sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I smiled back, despite the tight clutch of fear in my guts just from the thought of it. “I mean, Myriam and Gyuri know anyways so might as well,” I said, more to reassure myself than him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled so brightly that any doubt in my head was smothered out, “It’s gonna be great! They’ll love it! You’ll see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe. Just - could you give me some time with Hobie? Please? I don’t wanna disappoint him again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. If that’s what you need. But tomorrow -” he added and the playful eyebrow flew up - “we’re going out! And you’ll see how happy everyone will be for us and then you wanna run back here and tell Hobie, too!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” I smiled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gave my shoulder another squeeze, smiling. Then, his eyes travelled down my face, the smile on his lips stilled, then slowly faded, he frowned slightly but not in confusion. I had a vague memory I had seen that expression before, though not often, on the darkest nights. For a moment it felt like he was going to lean forward and kiss me on the forehead. Instead, he straightened his back, pulled his hand away and smiled again as if nothing had happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think there’s something to eat here? Am starving, gave my entire sandwich to Snaps.” He gave a small side-nod at the dog who was contently snoring on his pillow, a wet batch of drool spreading on the tawny fabric. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s always something to eat here,” I answered with a smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I got up and walked to the front of the shop to lock the door, then to the hallway, taking Boris - who was still sitting on my desk - by the hand with me. When we stepped into the hallway, heading towards the kitchen, he suddenly pulled me back by the hand. Surprised, my steps fell quick to meet him, already he had his arms around me, holding me tightly in his embrace before I had even realized what was happening. He was pressing his face into the crook between my neck and shoulder, his breath hot and quavering on my skin. For a moment, I stood there, stunned. Then, carefully, I placed both my hands on his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you - “ I started but he raised his head and pressed his lips fiercely on mine, pulling me by the hips as close as he could. I took a step back and pulled my head away to give myself space to breathe, something glistened in his eyes as he searched my face in confusion. I took his face in both my hands, running my thumbs over his cheeks and kissed him properly, softly, like we were back home again. His hands moving up my sides, I stepped even closer though there was hardly any space left between us. I kept my head close to his when eventually we pulled apart, reluctant to open my eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure you don’t wanna go straight home instead?” I asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed softly and was just about to answer when the sound of tap running came from the kitchen. Startled, I pushed Boris away - a bit too harshly it seemed, he fell a few steps backwards with a small grunt - and looked fearfully over my shoulder. The kitchen door was half open; I could hear Hobie’s heavy footsteps. Fuck. I had been sure he was still out on his lunch with Mrs. DeFrees, I hadn’t even heard him come in. I looked back at Boris, eyes wide with fear, he raised his eyebrows at me: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Seriously? Again?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry," I mumbled and cautiously started walking towards the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stopped by the door and slowly pushed it open with the back of my hand. Hobie was standing by the kitchen counter, his back towards me, wiping breadcrumbs into a small pile. Christie’s catalogue, fresh from the post, lay open on the kitchen table, opulent still-life taking up an entire page. The kettle was on the stove.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” I said carefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh hello, Theo.” He didn’t turn around nor stop wiping the counter, but his voice sounded like his normal cheerful self. “Didn’t hear you come in. Would you like some tea? I’m just making some,” he said a bit too hastily but maybe I was just imagining things. He stepped towards the cabinet where we kept spices and tea things and took out an old wooden box containing tea bags. Were his hands shaking? “What flavor?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, peppermint is fine. When did you get back?” Boris stepped closer quietly but remained out of sight from the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, just a few minutes ago or so,” Hobie reached for two mugs drying next to the sink and placed the teabags in them, then walked to the stove to adjust the flame. He still hadn’t looked at me. “We took a small walk around the park with Moira after lunch, asters are magnificent this time of year. Did you get a look at the catalogue, yet? I thought you might like that Coorte, I left it open for you,” he said and finally turned around, pointing at the open catalogue on the table, and smiled. It looked like a perfectly regular smile, nothing that said he had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, thanks. Um -” my eyes flicked to Boris, who was leaning against the wall behind the door frame, looking at me apprehensively. He gave a small flick of an eyebrow when my eyes met his. I turned back to Hobie who was still looking at me with a genial smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boris came over,” I said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes? Lovely! Where is he?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s just getting Popper,” I lied and gave a small side-kick to the shin to Boris. He started sneaking quietly down the corridor back towards the shop and Popper. I stepped into the kitchen to hide his footsteps and noisily pulled out a chair. “How’s Moira?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good as ever, slightly worried about James, though. He had a stroke last year, remember? Pretty minor, the doctors said, but still, stroke’s a stroke. But he’s improving already, enough to take up water polo, can you imagine that?” He chuckled to himself. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he picked up the box again and riffled through the teabags leisurely. “What tea does Boris drink?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Black. Water polo? Seriously? Isn’t he like over eighty by now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Hobie looked at me over the box with an amused smile and was just about to add something when Boris stomped loudly through the hallway and into the kitchen, holding Popchik.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr. Hobie!” He stepped in and smiled, a bit too happily it seemed, “How nice to see you! It’s been too long!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hobie laughed, “And you, and you! Always a pleasure. And please, I told you last time didn’t I, it’s just Hobie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah!” Boris slapped himself on the forehead in jest and stepped forward to shake Hobie’s hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You boys hungry?” Hobie asked, taking a third mug from the cupboard for Boris. “I should get back to Samantha’s armchair soon, she wanted it by the end of this week, didn’t she? But I could make you something quick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s okay,” I said hastily. Boris had looked up eagerly, but now gave me a disappointed grimace. “We were planning on going out anyways. I closed the shop for lunch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, just tea then,” Hobie nodded amicably. The kettle whistled.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That night I dreamt I was running along dark streets somewhere that looked vaguely like the streets in New York - derelict harbor area, cramped streets of Brooklyn - but every now and again I turned a corner and ran along the side of a canal. Black waters licking the cobblestone pavement, the hollow clatter of my shoes echoing around me. Tall narrow buildings on one side and endless water on the other. I was looking for Boris at one moment and my mother in the next. I knew he was in one of the buildings and I knew that if I just found the right one, she would be alright. But every building was wrong, the doors were locked and the windows boarded up, some of the houses even looked like they had been strafed: shards of glass filled the ground, roofs blown off. I was growing frantic, time was running out, the air was pressing on my face, making it difficult to breathe and nearly impossible to run. I was pushing on with all my might. I turned the corner into an alleyway: a dead end. I ran back, took another corner, another dead end. It started to snow, wet sleet stuck to my face and glasses, I could hardly see but I was getting close, there was no time to lose. This one! The door opened without my having touched it, I was running along a long dark hospital hallway without a ceiling, an infinite number of doors on either side. The last one, it had to be the last one, my breaths short and sharp, so close, almost there, hang on I’m coming! Suddenly, the floor underneath me disappeared and with one final gasp of surprise and terror, I fell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I was sitting up in bed. Breathing heavily like I’d actually ran all the way from New York to Amsterdam. Beads of cold sweat trickled down my face, neck, back. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath. As my breathing slowed, I started to sense that something was terribly off about my surroundings. I opened my eyes. The bed felt the same. As much as my eyes could make out, the room was the same, too. But darker and quieter than usual. I reached out my hand, it hit the empty side of the bed where Boris was supposed to be. I listened: quiet. No one walking. No light beneath the bathroom door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pushed the covers aside and got up, blindly searched for some clothes on the floor until my hand caught on a fabric. I pulled the sweatpants on - they were Boris’s - and opened the bedroom door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris was standing by the kitchen window, looking through the blinds, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Completely engulfed in the dark, only a narrow yellow band across his eyes where the street light shone through the blinds. He hadn’t heard me get up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t sleep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lifted his head in surprise and looked over, dropping his hand to his side. Then reached out his arm and silently beckoned me to come closer. I walked over to him and slid my hand along his warm back to rest on his waist; he placed his palm between my shoulder blades and gently rubbed the muscles on my back. I leaned my head on his shoulder and kissed the small hollow above his collarbone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re sweaty,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hummed in response, keeping my lips on his warm skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nightmare?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I lifted my head. “It’s fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked back out the window. I noticed his phone was on the kitchen table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Work stuff?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Nothing important.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you out here then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled faintly, not taking his eyes from the window and moved his hand thoughtfully up and down my back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I frowned, a terrifying thought had just crossed my mind. “Why are you looking out there? You’re not waiting for someone, are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh? No,” he said in a low voice, then looked at me and smiled at my doubtful expression, “Am not going anywhere, Potter. Don’t worry. I’m just thinking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Police sirens in the distance. A truck backing up. The refrigerator humming behind us. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You promised you’ll quit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand stopped. “I know. And I will,” he added a beat later than I would have liked, “Promise. There’s just one thing I gotta take care of first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just - “ he exhaled and looked out the window again; his hand dropped to my lower back. “Is not a big deal. Really. It’ll be fixed soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If it’s not a big deal then why are they calling you in the middle of the night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t answer me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boris? Don’t keep me in the dark.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed, “Remember those kids I told you about? Who tried to mess with us in Russia? Why I had to stay there after you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The ones that had something to do with your supplier? You told me that’s sorted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it might be a bit more difficult than I initially thought. And they’re not just kids, turns out they have a pretty solid thing going on. And that supplier thing? That was just a -” shake of the head - “rouge.” He rubbed his eye with one hand, “Is fine, though. It’s gonna be fine. Just give me few more weeks? Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reluctantly, I nodded. He pressed a kiss on my lips, brushing his nose against mine when he pulled away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come.” he said, taking my hand, “Back to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I lay awake the rest of the night, my head on Boris’s chest, counting his heartbeats, long after he had fallen back asleep.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy one year anniversary to me and this fic!! lol<br/>Can't believe it's been a year since I first started writing this, this fic has been the greatest joy of 2020 in my life. Thank you so so so much everyone who has commented, left kudos or just read it and thought "hey it's not half bad", no matter if you've been here since March last year or you just started, I love you all very much &lt;3 &lt;3<br/>And I hope you're not sick of me yet cos this story is going to be loooooong</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This turned out a little long but I didn't wanna split chapters again. Enjoy! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Steadily summer heat began to wane, yellow leaves were gliding past the shop windows and scattering on the sidewalks, wind howling through the courtyard, Boris taking out his thick black woolen overcoat as soon as the temperature dropped below 60 Fahrenheit - the immutable signs of autumn. After the business with Candy we stopped going out as much, not to clubs or bars at least but to movie theatres, walks around the city and Central Park, one golden September weekend even rented a car and drove to Warwick to visit the orchards and pick apples. Trying to make the most of the hours in a day we had for each other. Autumn was a busy time for me and apparently for Boris too as more and more his phone would ring in the middle of the night, calling him to unspecified work responsibilities. Most times he would mumble some instructions in Russian or Ukrainian before hanging up and snuggling back to my arms, but occasionally he’d silently dress and leave, after a quick kiss on my cheek, and I’d wake up in the morning to find a short text on my phone (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Be back for dinner if not sooner</span>
  </em>
  <span>) or him crashed on the sofa, fully clothed, and he wouldn’t wake up before late afternoon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite having been apart for so long, the changes we’d both gone through and the adults we had become, in a way we were still what we had been in Vegas, like an invisible cord had kept us together over the years, blindly growing in the same direction. Everything he did - every movement, every word he spoke - echoed through the years, his teenage self talking from the desert dunes while the grown man looked back at me over the dinner table with his bright, merry eyes. All his little habits and sayings I had grown so fond of in Vegas came cheerfully back, every day something I had pushed deep into oblivion resurfaced: the rough spots on his hands that caressed my back, the Ukrainian obscenities he pelted at the TV, the way he played with the corner of the book page as he read, spots of toothpaste that somehow always managed to drop on his T-shirt. A sense of déjà-vu came over me as I watched him frolic around with Popchik on the floor whenever I brought him over, teaching him to play dead and ask for treats. He still gnawed on his fingernails when watching TV or discussing work stuff on the phone, until I pulled his hand away and clasped it between mine. We still shared our food like we had done as kids, often eating from the same plate or over the frying pan on the stove, he still sat on the counter talking to me while I cooked and afterwards did the washing up. He still taught me Russian, I had to recall the old phrases before we could get more advanced, but soon enough we read Russian short stories together: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Heart of a Dog, One-storied America, </span>
  </em>
  <span>even started on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eugene Onegin</span>
  </em>
  <span> though I vastly preferred listening to Boris read it over my clumsy stumbling</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>On those rare mornings when neither of us had to go to work we would stay in bed until late afternoon, warm and cozy under the blankets, me reading aloud to him - slowly at first, stumbling over </span>
  <em>
    <span>ж</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ш</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>щ</span>
  </em>
  <span> - while Boris corrected my pronunciation and translated for me. We started having small day-to-day conversations in Russian, another one of our secret languages: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kogda tu bydesh’ doma? </span>
  </em>
  <span>When will you get home? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Davai primem dush.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Let’s have a shower. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chto tu hochesh’ v productovom?</span>
  </em>
  <span> What do you want from the deli? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Buterbrody i piroshki</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sandwiches and piroshki. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tu vzyal pivo?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Did you get the beer? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But also an infinite amount of new habits pleasantly surprised me every day: his cheerfully loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>Potter! </span>
  </em>
  <span>every time he walks through the front door, startling a lone neighbor in the hallway; stretching his arm across my chest when waking up, eyes tightly closed, yawning widely; carelessly shoving clothes into the dryer, cigarette loosely hanging from the side of his mouth. His raggedy red sweater saved for weekends with patched up holes and loose strands hanging from the sleeves. In the evenings crawling up next to me on the sofa like a cat, resting his feet next to mine atop of the coffee table and slouching his head on my chest, hand under my shirt, absently running his fingers back and forth over my ribs, the shadows on his face from the TV light breath-takingly akin to the ones that danced across his features in Vegas. Looking at him then - the screen reflected back in his black pupils, mouth slightly open from concentration - I could feel the bizarreness of time: we think it’s linear, noon follows morning, evening follows noon, but it’s not. It’s not even spiral. It’s more like a big chaos of times, all happening correspondingly. I could see his 15-year-old self as clearly as I could see his 29-year-old self and all the selves in between I had never even met; somehow I knew exactly who he had been, who he was and who he was going to be. When he fell asleep in front of the TV, which was fairly often owing to his hectic work schedule, I would turn the sound on mute and quietly listen to him breathe, the faint sounds of the city obscure and dream-like with no bearing on the two of us. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My fanciful desert daydreams dusted themselves off and materialized as we took the subway to Brighton Bridge, walked along the streets in Lower East Side, or went to the Film Forum to see old European classics: </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Bicycle Thief, La Mouette, </span>
  </em>
  <span>even </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Diamond Arm</span>
  </em>
  <span> one night - movies I had hardly cared for in my college film class had become infinitely more interesting with Boris at my side. Slipping into red velvety chairs, his fingers loosely interlocked with mine, nudging me in the ribs for more popcorn, his amused quirk of an eyebrow when we made eye contact during the film, catching each other’s attention drifting from the screen. All those places I had dreamed of taking him, imagining him walking next to me on those dreary afternoons after lectures when I missed him the most, walking aimlessly around the streets, mindlessly following anyone who spoke Russian on the phone or looked even vaguely Slavic, earbuds on, our songs playing. Now we were walking those streets together, haphazardly ducking into shops and cafes, sharing a cigarette or a </span>
  <em>
    <span>vatrushka</span>
  </em>
  <span>, waiting at the crossing together, our conversations lively, full of laughter and inside jokes, significant smiles, arch of an eyebrows, and the wind blowing through his hair and his sunny smile and the light of September so warm and golden it seemed to glow through and from me, and the streets and the cars and the burning in my chest and his buoyant steps and pointing cats and dogs out for me and the wave of his coat and that birthmark on his chin I couldn’t stop staring and him flicking my glasses as he caught me staring and laughing at my blushes and the sun and the wind and the waves crashing on Brighton Beach and him running a few steps ahead to meet the sea and waving his arms in the air and shouting </span>
  <em>
    <span>Potter!</span>
  </em>
  <span> that even after all this time still caught me off guard and made my heart jump like he’d call me on that street all over again and him flinging his scarf around my neck when I complained of the cold wind and pulling me down to sit next to him in the sand felt like a montage from some crazy delirious dream I was still struggling to find a bearing in, so when the sun went down I’d reach out my hand to grab hold of his coat sleeve, change my mind, let it drop to my side where Boris picked it up under the guise of pulling me with him to cross the street (although the subway station was on the side we were leaving). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I had considerably less nightmares than I did as a child (whenever I did, though, Boris was still there like he used to be, pulling me under the covers, muttering nonsense Polish in my ear) and my insomnia which had only gotten worse over the years - no thanks to my addictions which made regular sleeping pills as useless as hypnosis or meditation or any other bullshit I had been recommended - wasn’t as torturous with Boris. Not only did I sleep better with him next to me, the nights I couldn’t sleep he’d stay up with me; more often than not, however, it was me who stayed up with him. Back in Vegas, he had always been the one to fall asleep first, no matter where or when, by the pool in late afternoons, in English class early mornings, face down and drooling on the kitchen counter in the middle of the night. Now, though, there were nights he wouldn’t fall asleep before the streetlights had gone out and the first rays of sun painted dozens of orange squares of light on the windows around us. We would both stay up then, sitting on our bed, backs against the headboard, sometimes talking quietly and smoking (he’d often ask me to tell stories of my mother and my childhood in New York so I told him about the horses and the dogs in Kansas with the dusty race-tracks and long drives through the country, her early days in New York, the twenty-dollar dinner she had thrown with her friend Kika in the East Village, how she took me and Andy to the park to play badminton, the flowers from the Korean market she kept on the kitchen table) but on other nights just sitting in silence, Boris’s head on my shoulder, legs entwined. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More and more he started sharing stories that were less adventurous and exciting, the dark underbelly of his world. The long lonely car rides across Europe delivering goods all by himself, shivering in cheap roadside motels with a gun under the pillow. Waking up in the middle of nowhere after a night out, no phone, no wallet, splatter of blood on his dress shirt and a tooth less than he remembered having the night before. The pains of withdrawal he didn’t need to explain to me and the numerous relapses. Watching his friends die one by one: ODing in gas station toilets, stranger’s homes, cold urine-trenched stairwells, his first girlfriend after Kotku falling off a railway bridge under mysterious circumstances, Ludwig - the driver before Gyuri - choking on his own vomit; not to mention the grotesque handiworks of Martin he had to witness and was powerless to stop. And every one of them had left a mark on Boris. In the lull of mornings when the bustle on the streets hasn’t picked up yet and the light is just right, its mellowness glowing through the curtains and along the walls, I would trace the outlines of the tattoos painfully in contrast with his exposed pale white skin and he’d tell me the story behind each one; ridiculous in some cases, whilst others make me slide my hand over his back and press my lips to the dark contour - small soft kisses, the ones I remember giving him on nights I pretended to be way drunker than I really was in the blinking TV light, turning into greedy open mouth kisses up his spine, across his shoulder blades and on the nape of the neck, feel him turn under me, push the messy inkblack curls from his face and kiss him, anywhere, everywhere. The soft sigh that escapes his lips when I kiss his eyes makes me tremble, slide my hands gently through his hair, caressing every curl that slips through my fingers. And that deeper throaty moan he lets out when I kiss the scar on his hip makes me clutch my hands, dig my nails deep into his skin until we’re both out of breath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>_______________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One evening - sometime mid October - I was sitting at Mrs. Barbour’s bone-tired. I’d had a busy day at work - luncheon meeting uptown, then a visit to a certain Mr. Labonte, who wanted me to help with the redecoration of his townhouse, that was supposed to take up an hour but had ended up being a three hour tour around the house and through the extensive collection of family photo albums - and just as I was finishing up things at the shop I got a call from Mrs. Barbour asking me to dinner. What I really wanted was to get home to Boris but I hadn’t visited her for weeks and it had begun to weigh on my conscience. Not to mention it was extremely rare for Mrs. Barbour to call me (up until Boris and I got together we’d had an unspoken agreement that I called or visited every Saturday) so despite the mild headache and sore feet, I locked up the shop at seven and then took her to the Pierre, after which we went back to Mrs. Barbour’s apartment where we leafed through an old exhibition catalogue, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Painting in Renaissance Siena,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I had bought for her weeks ago but forgotten about ever since. Sitting in the comfy armchair in front of the crackling fire - Mrs. Barbour calmly turning the pages while telling me about her trip to Tuscany with Mr. Barbour they had taken before the kids - I nearly dozed off. Only when she asked if I’d been in touch with Kitsey recently did I sense something was wrong. As far as I knew, Kitsey was still seeing Tom but had given up trying to placate her mother to the fact and had instead moved in with him, stopped showing up to family dinners or replying to Platt’s calls and texts. Though Mrs. Barbour’s tone was casual enough, something in her manner suggested she was anxious to hear from her but refused to take the first step towards reconciliation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, no,” I sat back up in the chair where I had slowly sunk, and reached under my glasses to rub my eye. “I haven’t actually. Hasn’t she been around?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no. She seems awfully busy with her work. Well, no matter. Here, look at this,” she leaned towards me in her chair, turning the catalogue in her hand. I sat forward and winced when I leaned on my right foot, I seemed to have developed a blister from all the running around. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Madonna of the Snow</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I remember seeing it in The Uffizi, I convinced Chance to go specifically to Florence for that. One of the highlights of the holiday for me. He wasn’t pleased, though, wanted to see some yacht show in Genoa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a golden brown altarpiece, taking up half a page - Virgin Mary sitting in the middle with the Christ Child, surrounded by angels and kneeling saints. The fire glinting off the golden background, gilded arches and the aureole around the heads of John the Baptist and Francis, made it difficult to focus my eyes on the details, the painting seemed to sway and undulate as if it were alive. I looked up at Mrs. Barbour, her face as pale and serene as the Virgin Mary’s. With the fire and tranquil air of her room, I felt like some weary pilgrim, kneeling at the altar of Siena Cathedral in the 15th century, dust of the road on my shoulders, outside the balmy dusk of Tuscany. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Quite remarkable for the era. Very realistic,” she observed quietly; then abruptly raised her head and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Well, it’s not fair of me to keep you any longer, you must have had a long day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” I blinked in slight embarrassment and straightened my back. Had I been that obvious? “It’s nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Make sure you get a cab. I’d hate to think you’d be walking in this rain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only now I heard the rain drumming on the black windows. I pushed my hands on my knees and stood up, doing my best not to stretch and yawn in front of her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She closed the catalogue and set it aside, on her lips the soft, barely-there smile. “Thank you for tonight, Theo. You are such a dear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, anytime.” I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, “Goodnight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Theo.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite Mrs. Barbour’s advice, I didn’t get a cab as it was practically impossible to find an empty one. Instead I hurried through the drizzle to the subway station, hoping by the time I reached the Village it would have ceased completely, only to be faced with a fierce torrent when I arrived at the top of the stairs on Sheridan Square. The streets were a drenched blur of doleful gray. After the warmth of Mrs. Barbour’s room and the subway car, the air felt particularly cold, almost stinging, crawling its way to my bones. It was late - well past eleven. I ran through the rain, trying but failing to avoid the puddles so after a while I gave up. By the time I got to the apartment building I was completely soaked, angry with myself and the world. I shook the wet strands of hair off my face and walked through the foyer to the elevators, my shoes squeaking uncomfortably on the polished concrete floor. I could feel at least two blisters on my feet and my headache gushing back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stumbled through the front door of the apartment and walked straight to the bedroom, shouldering my coat off on the way and letting it drop on the kitchen floor. Boris was sitting on the bed reading. When I walked in he pulled his knees to his chin without taking his eyes from the book and I flung myself at his feet with an exhausted groan. The only light in the room was the small lamp on the nightstand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I closed my eyes; my body felt like a rock. High pitched ringing in my ears. Cold water seeping through the suit jacket. That’s ruined now. After a minute or two I heard Boris throw the book aside - it landed close to my outstretched arm - and get off the bed. Without a word, he unlaced my shoes and took them off before proceeding to pull the wet socks off my feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly. His warm hand caressed over my tired foot with uncharacteristic gentleness. “What did you do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just the - you know,” I started and sighed, too tired to speak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He got up and walked to the bathroom, I heard him going through the cabinets; when he returned he sat back on the floor and tabbed my blister with a piece of tissue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah!” Instinctively, I pulled my foot away from the sharp sting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold still,” he took my foot back in his hands and continued his work, “Is your own fault.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” I groaned. “I’m never leaving this house again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I felt so heavy I thought I was going to sink into the bed. My glasses had gone askew but I couldn't bother to lift my arm to fix them. Slowly I exhaled. Boris left for the bathroom once more, he returned with a towel to dry my feet, rubbing them in the process. Slowly but surely, some sensation returned to my frozen toes; he had placed my feet on his thighs, I could feel the soft fabric of his sweatpants underneath my soles. I stroked his thigh with the foot he wasn’t holding in his hand: “You’re a saint.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gave a small kiss on my ankle, “Only for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He climbed back in bed after that, gently took off my glasses and placed them on the nightstand, then lay down with his feet on the pillow and his head on my stomach. I moved my arms despite the weight of iron to them, one hand to rest on his shoulder, the other on his head, slowly sliding my fingers through his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The light on the nightstand cast a soothing yellow triangle over the ceiling, hazy at the edges. Outside: rain. Timelessly tapping on windows. It seemed as if some cigarette smoke was lingering below the ceiling though I couldn’t smell any. Boris’s head anchoring me to bed. His calm breaths, warm hand on mine, running his thumb slowly over my knuckles. Thoughts fading away like the day had never happened and a serene heaviness in my bones. I hadn’t even noticed my eyelids falling shut. Remembering my mother sitting by my bed when I was sick, stroking my feverish, sweaty forehead with her cool hand. Smells of chamomile and ocean waves, her sandalwood perfume. The weight of the blankets she had piled atop of me. Plastic planetarium stars glowing dim and comforting, then suddenly flying off the ceiling, crystal clear and distant. Water sloshing against the edge of the pool, crickets chirping, Popper yapping somewhere in the distance. Boris bounding and rubbing my back while I coughed up pool water. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll be back in a flash, Puppy, try to get some rest.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fading footsteps. Intermingling dreams. Someone was shouting. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why’d you do that for, idiot! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dad couldn’t be back yet. Tremor in Boris’s voice, warm hand going up and down, up and down my wet back. Strands of black hair clinging to his face and the rain streaming down the windows in Sutton Place. A door slammed. An applause. TV voices, mechanical laughter. Boris and I sitting atop of the monkey bars, watching the clouds roll over the vast sky, white and golden. He said something and smiled. What was that? And then it was dark. Snow falling, bare elm trees in the courtyard. Single flakes scattering from black branches and glistening in the moonlight. Hobie’s honey and lemon tea, bottle of stolen cough syrup on the floor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Potter? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Boris was standing in the courtyard, spinning round and round. The black trees had grown enormous, no city behind them. I had to tell him. You gotta get out of there! Now! I had to warn him against the man on the bench. Too dark to see. Wind slapping me on the face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Potter! </span>
  </em>
  <span>There was no door, you have to come in!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Potter!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I flinched and opened my eyes. Gradually, the blurry edges of the dream receded and Boris’s face rippled into view. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said you should get out of these wet clothes,” he said. He was smiling. He had his hand on my cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Right,” I rubbed my eye; then rested my hand atop of his on my face and closed my eyes again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on.” He hoisted me up by the suit lapels, pushed his hands along my arms to get the suit jacket off before proceeding to undo my shirt buttons one by one. Like someone had snapped the strings on a puppet, my head fell heavily on his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughed, “What now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t be bothered. Just leave me here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll catch a cold.” I let him take my shirt off before I stood up with another sleepy sigh and made my way to the bathroom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When I got back, I saw my suit and shirt neatly folded over the back of a chair in the corner. Boris was sitting up in bed; he pulled the covers aside and I climbed in. He reached over me to switch off the lamp then pulled my arm over his waist. I pressed myself close to him, nose to shoulder blade, one leg over his. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You doing anything tomorrow?” he asked just as I was slipping back to sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm. No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Gyuri is throwing you a coming out party.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My eyes snapped open. I was awake instantaneously. “I’m sorry what? My what?” I repeated when he only yawned, and pushed myself up on an elbow to stare at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No big deal,” he said in a deadpan voice, eyes still closed like he would fall asleep any minute, “Just dinner and drinks. He insisted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boris, what the mother fuck. No. No, Boris,” I said again, more heatedly, then noticed the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh fuck off,” I sighed and fell heavily on my back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned around to face me, full-on laughing now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I punched him in the arm, “You’re such an asshole. I’m way too fucking tired for this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Couldn’t help it,” he stroked his hand quickly back and forth over my chest smiling, gave a short pat and left it resting there. “But there will be dinner and you’re invited. Some people are coming over to help with a thing, Cherry and Shirley you know, also Taavi and Tatiana, twins, you haven’t met them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. And when were you gonna tell me that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugged with one shoulder, “Am telling you now. What? You need more time to pick out your outfit?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pushed his grinning face away from me, “Shut up. Do I have to come?” I asked after he stopped giggling at his own joke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Since Boris hadn’t wasted any time in letting everyone in his acquaintance know of our relationship after I had given him my consent, I had been desperately avoiding meeting any of them, though Boris insisted they were all fine with it and I was making a mountain out of a molehill (or in his words a pitchfork out of a needle). He frowned and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hmph</span>
  </em>
  <span>ed through his nose, clearly disappointed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll come,” I said quickly. “Just checking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shirley’s very excited, it’s his first time in the States, you know. And he wants to see you too, apparently you made quite an impression on him back in Amsterdam,” he smiled and nudged my foot with his. “What?” he added after a length of silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do they know?” I wasn’t quite sure how to ask that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. And no one gives a fuck, okay? Is not a big deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I wasn’t entirely convinced by that but sighed and closed my eyes, “Fine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>_______________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We were slouched on the sofa the next day reading </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Trousseau </span>
  </em>
  <span>in Russian together when Boris’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached over me to answer it, blowing hair from his eyes. A lively, rushed conversation in Russian followed, from which I could gather that Cherry and the others had arrived in JFK where Boris (and Gyuri?) were supposed to have picked them up but Boris had forgotten the time of their arrival. Then there was some talk of Gyuri, Boris laughed and hung up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” he threw the phone back on the table and pushed himself up on the sofa, “We gotta go, I messed up the times, they’re here already. Luckily Gyuri remembered, he’s got them now, we’ll meet them in the restaurant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris hailed a cab on the street after we’d gotten dressed and ready, gave the driver an address near Sheepshead Bay and continued chatting with him gleefully the rest of the way while I sat gloomily in my corner. I still wasn’t feeling sure about this. I thought back to Cherry in Amsterdam, his aviator glasses, broad military torso, his tough no-fucking-around look. I knew he was friends with Boris but still felt uneasy facing him in the light of the information he now had on me. Not to mention all his other friends who had been our regular drinking pals on our nights out and who I had been assiduously avoiding these past few weeks. I couldn’t help remembering the group of guys I’d seen in a bar one night when we were out with Boris sometime back in August, broad shouldered Slavic guys with worn-down leather jackets and tattoos on their face, one of them playing with a set of brass-knuckles; joking about whores and comparing the girls they’d banged. Those guys had absolutely nothing to do with Boris or his business or organization or whatever - I still wasn’t sure what to call it - but somehow it felt like they’d be waiting for us at the restaurant, ready to jump me as soon as I stepped out of the cab. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You okay?” Boris’s hand landed on my shoulder. The car had stopped on a street lined with low, red brick houses, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pung’s Laundromat</span>
  </em>
  <span> on a grime stained white sign on one side and an entry to a modest restaurant with graffitied walls on the other. He raised a questioning eyebrow at me. “You look like you gonna be sick.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” I said but didn’t move. I looked straight ahead at the stained plexiglass and my ambiguous reflection in it. Half of my face blurred, the other distinct on the black car seat headrest. For a brief moment it was the same boy who caught his reflection on the window in geometry class when the investigators came to question me about the explosion; the same wide anxious eyes, a deer caught in headlights. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The driver - a young Mexican guy with a baseball cap - cleared his throat pointedly. He was looking over his shoulder, eyes darting between me and Boris. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris turned to him, “Can you give us a minute?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The driver shrugged - apparently the two of them had become great pals along the way - and stepped out of the car, leaving the door open. Cold fresh wind blew in, dispelling some of the ersatz peppermint smell exuding from the various air fresheners hanging from the rear-view mirror. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it? What’s wrong?” Boris asked. I could see on his face the effort he was making to stay sympathetic and attentive, instead of sighing exasperatedly, talking over me and pushing me out of the car like he would’ve done before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” I said and looked out the window; the driver reached for a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, tapped one out, lit it, let out a tired smoke cloud and looked around at the traffic while kicking a nearby dumpster with the tip of his shoe. A plastic bag blew down the street. Two pigeons nibbling at a hamburger wrapper by the side of the road. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just very - I don’t know what to expect.” I looked at him, “Can’t you go alone? I mean, they’re your friends, why do you even want me there?“ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do I want you there?” he asked in surprise as if that wasn’t the question he was expecting. “Because -” he held out open palms with a perplexed look and let out a short astonished laugh - “Because they’re my friends! They invited you! Because it’s gonna be a fun party and I want you there, they all want you there! Because your my -” he sighed and dropped his hands, “Look, if you really don’t want to come, you don’t have to. But I want you there. Isn’t that enough?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We looked at each other for a moment or two. The subway rattled loudly near-by. Boris’s hand was on the seat between us; I put my hand atop of his and exhaled, “Okay. Okay,” I repeated, squeezed his hand and opened the cab door. The driver noticed my movement, dropped his cigarette on the street, quickly dashed it under his heel and stepped back towards the cab. Boris was scouring his pockets for change, I noticed the taxi meter was still running. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got it,” I said quickly, taking out my wallet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to,” Boris answered soberly, “I forgot my wallet.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We walked into the restaurant. It was a tired-looking ground floor place with dim lighting, glossy cognac brown veneer walls, crammed with mismatched chairs and small square tables, and a stuffy basement air that reminded me of the restaurant in Petersburg we had gone to on our first night. The same sense of travelling back in time to late Soviet era in some obscure Eastern European country, even the waitress with her heavy glittery blue eyeshadow and crow’s feet seemed to be from that time and place, languidly wiping the bar counter with a dirty gray cloth. Photos of anonymous groups of smiling people on the walls, Cyrillic lettered flayers, window-sized poster of Alla Pugacheva on the back wall. Shouting and clatter of dishes sounding distant and muffled then bursting out as the kitchen doors swung open and a tall waiter with a tray of glasses walked out. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, the tables near the door were empty except for a couple sitting in the corner, holding hands, dirty dishes pushed aside, low candlelight illuminating their faces; but a small crowd of people had gathered at the back where a number of tables had been pushed together to form one long dinner table. Boris led us straight there, ignoring the waitress who glared at us over the bar counter, she seemed to have her disapproving eyes fixed on Boris’s hand on my back that I was uncomfortably aware of but maybe I was just imagining things. Most of the people clustered around the long table I recognized as part of Boris’s organization: Myriam was there, Gyuri, Anatoly, Pawel the old Polish bartender, Maxim and Galina and in the corner where Boris turned with a happy shout stood Victor Cherry and Shirley T. talking to a blond frail-looking boy I hadn’t seen before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cherry!” Boris bawled and stepped near the table with his long strides, holding his arms out ready for an embrace and leaving me in the middle of the room. As soon as his hand left my back, I had stopped as if that had been the only force keeping me walking.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Borya! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Skol’ko let, skol’ko zim</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>!</em>” Cherry met him half-way. They hugged briefly and a fast conversation in Russian followed, both of them nodding eagerly, hands still on each other's shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shirley T!” Boris exclaimed next and ruffled Shirley’s hair who had stepped closer to greet Boris. He peered at me while Boris kept one hand on his shoulder, talking to Cherry. I looked away quickly and stuffed my hands, that suddenly seemed huge and in everyone’s way, deep into my coat pockets. Everyone was standing around the table, a drink in their hand, talking in pairs or groups of three-four. I had lost sight of Gyuri, Myriam was standing in the far off corner with two women I didn’t know, surrounded by thick smoke emanating from their cigarettes, all three of them immersed in the conversation. Stocky bearded guy who I’d seen a few times before but couldn’t remember the name of - Alexei? Andrei? something with an A - scowled at me over his shoulder until our eyes met briefly and he turned back to his conversation partner. Embarrassed, I turned my attention to the long table in front of me covered with red tablecloth, laid out with plates and cutlery, squares of yellow tissue paper under each pair of fork and knife. The tall waiter was going around the table neatly placing a water glass and a shot glass next to each plate. At the center of the table stood glass water jugs with thin slices of lemon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fyodor!” Gyuri had appeared next to me and unexpectedly enveloped me in his warm embrace, “How are you? You look pale, are you sick? Want something to drink? We got vodka, beer, some wine maybe in the back, water?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m good, thanks,” I answered, grateful for his attention. “How are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good, good, never better. Take off your coat, it’s steaming in here, isn’t it? I’ll ask Martha to turn down the heat,” he said quickly, patted me on the back and walked off. Regretfully I watched him leave to talk to the waitress who was collecting dirty dishes from the couple by the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on,” Boris suddenly reappeared, grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me to Cherry and Shirley who were both now looking at me expectantly. “You remember Potter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, of course. Potter,” Cherry almost crushed my hand with his firm handshake, pulled me closer to a half-embrace and gave me a heavy thump on the back. “So you’re the one that’s managed to settle out Borya down, eh?” He laughed roughly, his hand still clasped around mine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I could feel my face growing warm and red; praying that the light in the place was dim enough so no one would notice though the smirk on Boris’s face seemed to say otherwise. Luckily, Shirley stepped next to me quickly and Cherry was forced to relinquish my hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is a pleasure to see you again,” he said, diligently sounding out each word like a schoolboy in class and holding out his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah,” I answered, slightly taken aback by his formal tone, and accepted his handshake, “Likewise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shirley frowned at that in seeming confusion but I didn’t have time to add anything because Boris threw his arm around my shoulder and was pulling me towards the blond boy in the corner. I looked over my shoulder to see Shirley turning to Cherry with a quizzical frown, mouthing: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Likewise?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, and this is Taavi. Taavi, Potter,” Boris introduced us after he and Taavi had shaken hands and given each other a hard pat on the shoulder, Taavi almost falling over from Boris’s heavy smack. He was tall but very slim with light freckles on his pale cheeks; his thin chin, long nose and watery eyes reminded me of a rabid fox. The glass he was holding seemed to be shivering slightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We shook hands - his was cold and clammy - he nodded at me briefly then turned back to Boris, “We gotta talk about the logistics, Boris. I don’t know what Tatiana told you, but the guy I had in the harbor is growing fickle and this is too big an operation to have any flimsy screws. I could call someone else but I don’t know who you’re ready to include in this, maybe we could -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, not here, we’ll talk later,” Boris cut him off, his eyes darting around the room and patting him on the shoulder again. Taavi didn’t seem happy about that but fell sullenly quiet and walked over to the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Estonians, eh?” Boris was saying quietly, his hand on my shoulder again, keeping his head close to mine in a boyish secretive manner, “always work with them, work, work,” - he waved his hand back and forth as if “work” was some childish game like tag or hide-and-seek he didn’t have the time or patience for - “They’ll kill themselves with all that work. Ha, Leo!” he smiled and briskly shook hands with a guy who walked past us then turned back to me, rubbing my arm - “And don’t mind him, yeah, nothing personal, Estonians are all like that, all silent and gloomy, look like they’re gonna jump off a cliff any minute, it’s the cold that does that, am telling you! But they’re good to do business with, you know? Get their shit done. Don’t talk too much, don’t waste time. Oh, and that,” he pointed at one of the women in Myriam’s circle, tall and slim with light brown hair and lively eyes that were scanning the room even as she was talking, “That’s Tatiana, Taavi’s sister. Look at those legs, eh?” he laughed and nudged me in the ribs, “They’ll reach all the way from here to West Coast, ha! You know what they say, right? Estonian women are the prettiest in Europe! Or Swedish, there’s some debate around that, but they’re pretty much the same type if you ask me, tall, blonde, look like they could kill you, you know. Me, personally? Prefer the Swedish ones, but then again I have more experience with them, although,” he added with a gleeful laugh, “Tatiana and me did once almost -'' But I never heard what Boris and Tatiana almost did, because his attention was drawn by three waiters emerging from the kitchen, carrying trays with small plates and bowls filled with cold salads, herring, pickled mushrooms, some brown jelly looking thing and baskets of dark rye bread, that they started setting down on the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chatter in the room died down for a moment as everyone’s attention was caught by the arrival of the waiters, then erupted even more enthusiastically and people started moving towards the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good, food. Finally. Am starving, you?” Boris placed his hand on my back to push me towards the table then looked me up and down as if seeing me for the first time, “Why you still got your coat on?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just got here, remember. Besides,” I tugged at the sleeve of his overcoat he was still wearing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, right,” he smiled, shouldering his coat off, “No-no, I got it, you go save us a seat,” he said when I looked around for a clothes rack, and nodded towards the table, taking my coat in his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hovered around the table where everyone was pulling out chairs and sitting down amidst continuing chatter and bursts of laughter, greeting old friends across the table they hadn’t had a chance to speak to yet. No one spoke English and although I had advanced considerably with my Russian during the past months thanks to Boris, I could hardly distinguish a word spoken around me. People were talking over each other and it seemed like in several different languages at once so that after a while it grew into such a confusing cloud of cacophony, I couldn’t even discern between the languages, which only increased my sense of alienation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” someone’s cold hand slipped into mine. I looked down; it was Tatiana who smiled up at me, sitting by the table with an empty chair next to her and pulling me by the hand, “Sit here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sat next to her, there was an empty seat to my left and my eyes looked around the room for Boris, hoping he’d show up in time so that no one else could sit there. He had wandered off to the other side of the table, leaning over Myriam and telling her something, his mouth close to her ear, elbows leaning on the backrests of chairs on either side. Myriam looked blankly ahead, only a small frown on her face, seemingly focused on what he was telling her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re Fyodor Potter, right?” Tatiana asked, drawing my attention back to her, “Tatiana.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, hi, nice to meet you,” I had given up correcting people about my name as Boris’s nickname had stuck so permanently and shook hands with her which was a challenge in the cramped space. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s so lovely to finally meet you, I have heard so much.” Although she spoke with an accent, it wasn’t the rough, guttural Slavic one I had become used to but slightly robotic and artless, reminding me of Millet’s peasants resting after harvesting for some reason. She poured water in her glass, then mine. “You’re a theology professor, right? What made you interested in that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I looked at her in confusion, “Um, no, I’m not. I deal antiques actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh! Sorry,” she laughed so cheerfully at her mistake I cracked a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What made you think I’m a theology professor?” I asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought I heard Gyuri say something like that, but I could be wrong. Antiques, yeah? What, like coins and stuff?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, furniture mostly. And some knick-knacks. Coins are a whole different speciality.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, right. Ah! We should let Boris know you’re here,” she said and waved her arm in the air. Boris had moved away from Myriam and was scanning the crowd sitting around the table; he noticed us, smiled and started nudging his way towards us. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There you are,” he said having reached us. He leaned over Tatiana’s shoulder to give her a quick little kiss on the cheek then pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve met Tatiana, yes? Good, good,” he leaned forward, told Tatiana something fast, they both laughed and their eyes flicked towards me for a second. “Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>spasibo,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Boris said to Pawel who had handed him a large tureen with steaming egg yolk yellow potatoes. I noticed that similar bowls of potatoes and sauerkraut along with trays of meat had appeared all of a sudden, people were passing them around hand to hand in a friendly circle, talking with their neighbors left and right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boris lifted the potatoes between his fork and thumb, dropping some on his plate and some on mine, before passing the tureen on to Tatiana. Then grabbed hold of the nearest plates and bowls with cold dishes around us, scooping generous loads of salads, cold meat, various pickled vegetables and mushrooms first on his plate then on mine all the while talking to the people around him, smiling and nodding and commenting on the food.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take the meat, Potter,” he said, handing a plate of herring to Shirley across the table while licking a tab of sour cream off his thumb and nodding at the tray Tatiana was trying to give me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, sorry,” I accepted the tray of meats and sausages, dropped some on my plate, some on Boris’s and handed it on to Pawel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bread,” Tatiana offered me a small basket of dark rye bread. I thanked her, took two slices, leaving one on the edge of Boris’s plate. The brown jelly looking thing with pieces of meat I had been peering with suspicion had unfortunately made its way to Boris, he dropped a slice on his plate then turned towards me cutting a thick slice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, no thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be a baby, Potter, it’s good,” he said and slid the slimy slice on my plate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Meat jelly?” I said incredulously and poked at the bits of meat with the end of my fork. Although some pieces were recognizable meat, others looked white and hard like tiny pieces of bone or tendon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is </span>
  <em>
    <span>studen</span>
  </em>
  <span>, don’t judge if you’ve never had it! Look, you put some vinegar on it -” he reached for a glass jug on the table that was so small it looked like it was meant for a doll and poured vinegar on the jelly on my plate, “and eat it! It’s traditional food, no whining!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lastly, two bottles of vodka did their rounds and then Gyuri thundered over the table: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tost!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone stopped talking, took the shot glass in their hands and, to my surprise, fixed their eyes on Boris who stood up and cleared his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You understand Russian?” Tatiana whispered quickly in my ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really,” I answered quietly and then Boris started speaking. Perhaps I should’ve told her I did, since though I struggled to understand the general conversation around me, I would’ve grasped Boris’s speech perfectly having grown used to his way of talking and Tatiana’s rushed translations - though well-meant - were a hindrance rather than assistance in helping me understand as I tried to concentrate on Boris. As it was, I only caught fragments from either side; it seemed Boris was talking of friends and loyalty, coming together during dark times, nearing the end of a long journey to start another one. At one point it felt like everyone’s eyes fell on me for a moment, but the general mood was so cordial, people were smiling with such a friendly, open look about them, a few girls and Gyuri dabbing their eyes with a corner of a handkerchief, I didn’t feel the least troubled by it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Boris was nearing the end of his speech, he lifted his glass, drew a deep breath and looked around the room in a proud, heartfelt way like Hobie would often look at his especially difficult yet perfectly executed restoration and exclaimed: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Druzyam!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone lifted their glasses, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Druzyam!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I followed a beat later, having lost myself in trying to make out the look on Boris’s face - a kind of happy-sad - and hastily downed my vodka with everyone else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright?” I asked Boris quietly when he sat down again. He smiled, put his hand on mine and squeezed it gently: “Yes, yes. You should eat,” he nodded at my overflowing plate. Everyone around the table was eating and talking again. Few bottles of red wine and jugs of beer had appeared that people were passing around. Boris pulled his chair closer to the table and closer to my chair.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cheerfully, the evening went on. After a while I stopped trying to understand the conversations around me but let myself sink into the incomprehensible babble, the warm, jolly atmosphere of an old Christmas movie and my inability to understand became weirdly comforting, relieving me of any duty to respond and perform, only saying something friendly when someone occasionally addressed me in English but mostly just smiling and nodding, enjoying my food, handing out the bowls and plates near me when someone further away asked for them and refilling Boris’s glass and mine from the huge glass jug of beer, some of it spilling on the table. The people around me seemed like some benign creatures from another planet, completely unintelligible yet including me in their ranks with smiles and nods, little gestures of peace and comity. Beneath the boisterous chatter ran a smooth undercurrent of old Russian folk songs the waitress at the bar had put on, now and then one person would start singing along and suddenly everyone dropped their talk and joined in, swaying side to side, arm around a neighbor’s shoulder, roaring out the final phrase and downing the vodka glass amidst cheerful laughter. Boris was talking to everyone without leaving his seat, his elbow firmly linked to mine or his hand on my shoulder, leaning into me to talk to the people on my right, telling something to Shirley across the table, laughing and everyone was laughing and I was laughing though I didn’t know what we were laughing at, now and again making eye contact with me: </span>
  <em>
    <span>You good? Of course, perfect.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And he smiled, refilled my glass, turned to talk to Cherry or Pawel or Leonid, leaning his back towards me so our shoulders touched. More people were making toasts, all in Russian, Boris translating for me: Cherry for cooperation and loyalty of friends, Maxim for the great food, Myriam for Boris as the best boss she’s ever had (this was followed by loud cheers and many more stepping forward to claim Boris as the best boss they’ve ever had), Tatiana for continuing success in the future, then Gyuri stood up and cleared his throat. A hush fell upon the room, a couple of people who had been standing and talking behind someone else’s chair quickly took their seats again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would like to make a toast to someone who has had more to do with our success and current happiness than I think most of us realize,” he said, surprisingly in English; I could feel my cheeks practically burst into flames as he turned towards me, holding out his glass, and I pressed myself as close to my chair as I could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fyodor,” he continued with a solemn voice, Boris beamed at my side and took my hand under the table, “When I first met you, I’ll be honest, had some doubts about you. But you have proven yourself to be a trustworthy and loyal friend, and although I am sad to see less of Boris in the future, I am happy to know he will be cared for and happier now with you and frankly there is no one else I would trust with this job. And I am sure I speak on behalf of everyone in the room on this joyful night when I welcome you to our midst. To Fyodor!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To Fyodor!” The chorus echoed, raising their glasses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To Potter,” Boris said quietly next to me with that significant look in his eyes that never failed to make me smile. I shook my head lightly, slid deeper into the chair and linked our fingers under the table. Boris laughed and downed his vodka and as I looked at the kind, merry faces around me, cheeks tinted pink with warmth and alcohol, half of them people I had never even met before yet eagerly and sincerely joining in on Gyuri’s toast, and though it would be weird to call them my friends or family, I felt a long-missed sense of belonging among them as if suddenly the world I had been inhabiting doubled in volume or another universe had attached itself to my lonely little planet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>_______________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>About an hour or two into the dinner the waiters wheeled in a massive tin samovar on a small table, the meats and salads were cleared and replaced by a huge rectangular zephyr cake decorated with multicolored flowers made of icing and plates of little square biscuits. People were moving around more, getting tea, going out to smoke, changing seats, talking in small clusters in the corner again. Boris had gone to the other side of the table to talk to Myriam and the twins while Gyuri and I introduced the different New York boroughs to Shirley that turned into a heated argument over Brooklyn vs Manhattan. Gyuri translated some things to Shirley from time to time but he seemed to have improved over the past year or so as I don’t recall him talking a word of English back in Amsterdam. I was feeling slightly buzzed from the vodka so I started practicing my horrible Russian on them which incited friendly roars of laughter, a few more people joined our group, everyone throwing in more words they wanted to hear me pronounce, attempting to teach me swear words only to be delighted to find out I’d mastered those long ago. Somehow the talk turned into a dispute over some old phrase I couldn’t fully understand and it was decided it should be settled over a game of stabscotch. A knife was acquired from the kitchen, one by one the contestants spread their hand on the table and stabbed the knife between the fingers at incredible speeds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We were all cheering for Shirley who had successfully done five rounds without any mistakes when someone’s forearms leaned on my shoulders that I instinctively recognized as Boris’s. I was too drunk to feel embarrassed about his sudden public show of intimacy and leaned comfortably back in my chair instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Having fun?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” I answered. Slowly, I took a deep drag from my cigarette and watched Alexei jump from his seat with a loud howl as the knife hit his hand, everyone excitedly shouting and laughing around him. But they seemed to be distant from us as if separated by a smoky glass wall, their voices muffled whereas Boris’s quiet breath was distinct in my ear. I stubbed out my cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the table then patted Boris on the arm and craned my neck back to see him, “You should join us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm, wish I could. Listen,” he leaned closer, his breath warm and ticklish in my ear, “you have to go home now. Gyuri will take you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” His words seemed to be moving at a slower speed than usual, it took me a minute to realize what he was saying. “What about you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I gotta stay here for a bit. Well, not here here, we’re gonna go somewhere but is work stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pushed his arms away from my neck, fully alert suddenly, and turned in my chair to look at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Now? What do you mean work stuff? What are you gonna do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look,” he stood up straight and sighed, “is not a big deal, we just gotta talk to someone, won’t take more than few hours, okay? Gyuri,” he put a hand on Gyuri’s shoulder who immediately turned in his chair with a serious look though he had been laughing with the rest of the guys just a moment before. Boris told him something fast, Gyuri’s eyes darted to me, he nodded gravely and stood up, giving me a slight wave of the hand. I recognized it as a cue to get moving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I got up and turned to Boris but before I could say anything, he smiled, “I’ll be back before midnight, yeah? Don’t watch </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fargo</span>
  </em>
  <span> without me.” He gave a friendly slap on my arm then walked off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the car with Gyuri I sat on the passenger seat ready to interrogate him about what had just happened but he seemed to have anticipated that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, Fyodor,” he said, as soon as I had closed the car door behind me, “I can’t tell you where they’re going and why, wish I could! Honestly. But boss’s orders, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Outside it was dark and cloudy and although it wasn’t actually raining the air looked damp. Gyuri was still staring at me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Fine,” I yielded reluctantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gyuri started the car and pulled out of the curb. As we drove away I looked out of the side-view mirror and saw a bunch of dark figures - of which I only recognized Boris’s - file out of the restaurant and into the street, collars turned up, hunched and sinister, standing under a single fluorescent streetlight like mafia characters set for a stage play. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was eerie how quiet the apartment had become after the lively dinner at the restaurant. I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter with a shallow clang that seemed to reverberate in the silence long after. For a few minutes I stood by the counter, my coat and shoes on and looked around the dark room; the light from the street illuminating a batch of floor, part of sofa. Hollow light on the kitchen table and chair, striped through the blinds. Nothing stirred.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I took a shower. Tried to read a book but couldn’t concentrate. Then turned the TV on and sat at the kitchen table where I could see the front door, keeping my eyes on the screen but ears perked for any sound from the hallway: elevator doors, distinct steps, a key in the lock. Although I wasn’t hungry, after a while I decided to eat something. I found a half-empty carton of sweet and sour chicken in the fridge that I ate unheated and stayed at the table afterwards, dirty dishes and a mug of tea in front of me, smoking. Tapping ash into the leftover sticky red sauce. Constantly checking my watch: two hours to midnight, hour and twenty minutes, one. Half an hour to midnight and I was looking at the watch I had set in front of me more than the TV. The clock struck and I looked at the door: nothing. Five past, ten past. The longer I stared, the longer the hallway seemed to grow. Dim, narrow, crawling with tension, like something out of a horror movie. I couldn’t help feeling like I did when I was five waiting for my mother to get home, anxiously sitting on the floor by the front door of the apartment. I stubbed out my cigarette and stood up, put the two plates that had been drying next to the sink since breakfast back on the shelf, two forks into the drawer. Opened a cabinet door, closed it, sat down again. Raised the blinds and stared at my lonely reflection in the window. After what seemed like hours - but if my watch wasn’t lying was only a little over twenty minutes past midnight - I heard the key turn in the lock and a sigh of relief escaped my mouth. I took the empty carton to the trash just as Boris walked in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” I said, my back turned, tying up the overflowing bin bag. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something in his voice made me stand up and turn around. His silhouette was standing in the dim hallway, leaning against the wall, his figure abnormally bulky from the overcoat he still had on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pushed a strand of hair from my eye and frowned, “Is everything okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m - “ his shoulders moved slightly as he shrugged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something was keeping me from walking over to him as though an invisible wall had risen between us. My instincts told me to stand back, be as quiet and unnoticeable as possible. See how it plays out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come home,” he said quietly. His voice, the same I heard every night, cracked the wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I walked over to him and took his hands in mine, “What are you talking about? What happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glanced down at our hands, my eyes followed his. In the weak light I could make out the bruises and caked blood on his right hand knuckles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did you - “</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t want to,” he said quickly. In any other situation I would have laughed at how ridiculously similar he sounded to his 16-year-old self, trying to justify why he had given Kotku a fat lip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean you didn’t want to?” I asked slowly. My voice had become weirdly quiet like we were hiding from someone on the other side of the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulled his hands from mine and shoved them in his pockets. “It’s just a job. You gotta do what you gotta do,” he said in his strange business voice I refused to get used to, and pushed his jaw out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” I said after a confused pause and turned around to walk back to the kitchen table. I sat down and took the mug in my hand only to realize it was empty. From the corner of my eye I could see him standing in the same place. For a long minute we were both silent. But it wasn’t our usual companionable silence, it was tense and frizzling as though we were holding our breaths. It didn’t feel quite real. Maybe if we didn’t talk about it wouldn’t become real. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should go,” he said at last.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go where?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugged again. Then slowly turned towards the front door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boris,” I called. He turned around fast. “Did you get it cleaned?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shook his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I nodded at the kitchen chair and went to the bathroom to get the first aid kit after I’d made sure he’d read my signal and started moving towards the seat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time I returned, he had taken off his coat and sat at the table, shoulders slanted, his knee jumping fast up and down. I sat over the corner, for a moment hesitated but then took his hand in mine. My skin recognized his instinctively yet looking at it, it felt like I was holding the hand of a beaten up mannequin. I dabbed the wounds with a piece of damp tissue. Erratic sirens down the street. Rhythmic creak of the floorboards. Most of the wounds were superficial grazes except for one cut between his second and third knuckle, which - though I tried not to think about it - must have hit the teeth. Although I kept my eyes on his hand, I could feel him looking at me. I bandaged the cut and raised my head. Our eyes met. He blinked fast twice as if caught red handed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t want to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said that already.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Honestly. It’s just - “ he took my hands in both of his, squeezing tightly, eyes imploring, “I will quit. Promise. Am working on it right now. But sometimes it’s - it can be tough. Have to show you’re not to be messed with, like preemptive safety measure, you know. I can’t afford to show weakness. Especially now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pulled my hands from his grip and sitting back in the chair pointed at the cut, “You should get it checked out. Could be infected.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not like I like doing it! I don’t! You know me, I don’t wanna hurt anyone if I can help it. Especially now, with you. Being with you has made me hate it even more, all of it! The scheming and threatening, running around, lying, drugs. I even went clean because of you! To show I can be there for you, that you can rely on me. Am trying to fix this! Truly! And this, tonight? I don’t wanna do this anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am trying! Promise. It’s just gonna take some time. Will you wait?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I didn’t answer. All I could see was the bleeding evidence of violence laying on the table. My dad’s heavy hand coming down on me, Boris tumbling to the ground with the sharp flash of a cane. Who will be treating the other guy’s wounds tonight? As though reading my mind, Boris slid his hands off the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay. I get it,” he said resignedly and stood up. Damp lock of hair falling to his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you eaten?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned around. A pause where he searched my face and then sat down again. “No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I got up and went to the fridge. “What do you want? Grilled cheese?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I made him dinner and sat with him as he ate, two steaming mugs of tea in front of us. It was past one by then, the clouds that had been gathering during the day finally gave in and dismal October rain dribbled down the dark windows. Our eyes met in the reflection. I knew. I had known since I was fourteen. I took his hand in mine and pressed his bloody knuckles to my lips, eyes closed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” He sounded like a person drowning. “I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I felt out of breath. “You didn’t do anything to me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I let you down.” He gasped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was all I could say. And I couldn’t say anything else, though I wished I could. So we sat there in the middle of the night. And I washed his dishes while he took a shower. And waited for him in the bed. And held his hand through the night. And it was all I could do. 

</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I had so much fun with this chapter, hope that comes through. Let me know what you thought!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A week went by before I finally puckered up enough courage to confront Boris on what had happened that night. The morning following it, he had woken up before me and bought an assortment of pastries from that close-by Italian bakery I liked, carried them with two mugs of coffee to bed and after that we acted as if everything was back to normal. But everything wasn’t back to normal. Things had been simmering for far too long. By then it had been nearly four months since his promise to quit his job and now it seemed his work life was becoming too much a part of our home life; perhaps it had been foolish of me to think we could keep those two apart in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That night I came home after work to an empty apartment. Boris had texted me during the day that he’d come home late but still, at the sight of the dark rooms, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He came home around eight while I was cooking dinner. I glanced up from the pot of spaghetti I had been stirring at the sound of the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey. Perfect timing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What a fucking day,” he groaned and kicked off his shoes in the hallway before coming to the kitchen, giving a quick kiss on my shoulder on his way to the fridge for a beer. “What are you making?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That pasta you like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled and leaned against the kitchen counter, opened the bottle and after a big gulp offered it to me. “How was work?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. Quiet. What about you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not so quiet,” he laughed and accepted the bottle I was handing back to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? What happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, this and that,” he waved the bottle carelessly in his hand before taking another swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I went to the cupboard and took out two plates, left them on the counter and checked my watch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I glanced up. “Mh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re being quiet. What is it? Look,” he sighed when I just shrugged to his question, and placed the bottle on the counter, “I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry I haven’t been home much recently. Things have been a bit hectic at work but we’re sorting it all out and it’ll be over soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stirred the mushrooms in the frying pan and didn’t say anything for a while. Then asked: “Do I wanna know what you’re talking about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorted, “No, I don’t think I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What does sort out even mean? What things?” I dropped the spatula in the pan and looked at him. “Are you going to kill someone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He barked his short, astonished laugh, “Jesus, Potter, what the fuck do you think of us? You think we just run around shooting random people? We’re not the Albanian mafia, for God’s sake.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, how the hell should I know? It’s not like you’re telling me anything, what am I supposed to think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s not -” he sighed and rubbed his face with one hand. “It’s not like that, not some Pablo Escobar type of shit I’m running, it’s small things! Some perfectly legal, I have you know. Others have a bit more wiggle room.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is exactly what I mean! What the hell is wiggle room?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, look,” I sighed then looked at him decisively. “I think we should talk about the other night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, hear me out. I know it’s partly my fault. I haven’t really been asking about your work and, frankly, I don’t want to know what you do. And for a while I thought it would be easier this way, but if we’re gonna be together, you know, for real, I have to know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I’m going to quit, I don’t see why should you -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He frowned at that, “What is that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it’s been four months and you still haven’t. And I’m not saying you should -” I added quickly when he started to protest - “I don’t wanna make you do something you don’t want to, I certainly don’t want you to feel like I’m restraining you or telling you what to do or something but I also don’t want to come home one day and find you dead or gone or -” He put his hand on mine, when had I become so heated?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You won’t, Theo, it’s okay. I want to quit. Really. Been thinking about it for some time actually, even before Amsterdam but didn’t have much option back then. But now with you and the money from the painting, I’m going to do it. Really. It’s just there’s some difficult things happening at work at the moment and I don’t want to jump ship in the middle of the storm, you know? Leave it all to Myriam to deal with? Is not fair, she’s been great help to me over the years and a good friend, I can’t do that to her. But I promise you, this will all end soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let out a tired sigh. “I truly wish I could give you an exact date but it’s complicated. Two weeks maybe? A month? I’m not really in position to make the decisions here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. This is way too big for us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh God, what? What is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t get all worked up, okay? It’s a good thing. I just mean there are some bigger bosses taking care of our troubles, we just have to give them a small hand with some things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What things? What troubles?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” he picked up his bottle again and brought it to his mouth, but before taking a sip, frowned at the pot of pasta instead, “How long has that been cooking there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, shit.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I drained the pasta and finished the sauce while Boris set the table; then we sat down to eat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Finish your talk,” I said without touching my food.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He mumbled something incomprehensible, his mouth already full; chewed impatiently, swallowed and then continued: “You remember the other group I told you about in Petersburg? I think I’ve mentioned them before, the ones trying to mess with us? Why I had to stay there when you left?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit. What happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing too bad yet, they’re just incredibly fucking annoying. Showing up from nowhere, acting like some big tough drug lords, most of them ex-convicts, thinking that gives them some privilege, ha! They’re the fucking idiots for getting caught! Anyway, the trouble is they have managed to build a pretty extensive network and this in turn has allowed them to create too fucking much trouble for us. Trying to take over our customers, our supply line, very annoying. I mean, we have everything sorted out, you know? We’ve been in this for years! Who we sell to, who we get the goods from, what territory to stay out of, but these guys? No fucking respect. Coming in thinking they own the place. Made a whole fucking mess in Tallinn harbor a few months ago, real fucking headache, but also a blessing in disguise for us! That’s how we got the twins on board.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On board of what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold on, I’m getting there.” He took another swig of beer, held his fist to his mouth and burped, then continued: “So, as I was saying, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to quit, already started to fix my passport and all the other paperworks. But then these guys showed up, stealing </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> customers, negotiating with </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> supplier, coming into </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> territory -” he pointed at himself with his fork in a manner of a slighted dandy - “and I gotta sort this out first, it’s a gentleman’s thing to do, right? Not just reap the cream and leave Myriam alone in that mess, is not fair, but I also know what effect it has on you and - yes, yes -” he added quickly when I tried to interrupt - “I know what you’re gonna say but you’re not forcing me to do anything, okay? Like I told you, I want to quit. So, anyways, there I was, thinking what to do, what to do, how am I going to fix this and then! Cherry calls me. Out of the blue. Asks if I know anything about Vassili and his guys. Turns out, the same assholes have been giving Cherry and his bosses a real fucking headache too. So, hooray for us! Because Cherry’s boss? He’s the Escobar you think I am. I’m nothing compared to that guy. He’s got a whole fucking global network running for him. And a shitton of political influence, too, now we can actually do something.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it’s kinda hard to explain, it involves a lot of politics and some big suits in the police. Honestly? I’m just an insignificant foot soldier in this game, I don’t call the shots here. We’re just gonna do our bit, that doesn’t involve any killing!” he added with a raised fork - “and let them take care of the rest. Then wait for it all to blow over, give the business to Myriam and voila!” He opened his palms with a happy smile, “I’m a regular, boring citizen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” I sat quietly and watched him shove pasta in his mouth; at least his appetite hadn’t been affected by all of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He noticed me looking. “What? Is there something more? Just ask me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “You still haven’t told me about the other night. With your hand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” he dropped his fork on the plate and, sitting back in his chair, swallowed. “That. Look, I’m not proud of what I did but it had to be done. But the guy is fine, okay? I didn’t kill him or anything, he didn’t even have to go to the hospital, I don’t think. He just did something really really stupid and it’s part of my job to make sure that doesn’t happen again. I’m the one taking the responsibility here,” he pointed at himself a bit self-righteously - “I can’t have guys like him fucking everything up. You gotta show everyone you’re not to be messed with, that there’s gonna be consequences. But he’s fine, yeah? Most people in this business would’ve killed him for what he did, he’s lucky to be alive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reached for my hand on the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be like that. If I could change things, I would and I’m trying to! Honestly. It’ll be over soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” I nodded and picked up my fork. “It’s fine. I’ll wait,” I added when he still looked at me doubtfully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few nights later, I was awoken by a phone ringing. Before I had even registered whose phone it was, Boris had reached for it on the nightstand. He checked the screen and made a disgruntled whine before answering and talking in Russian or Ukrainian, I wasn’t paying enough attention to make out which one. Someone always called him in the middle of the night, usually it was nothing. I closed my eyes and turned to my side, ready to go back to sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, I startled awake. Boris had cursed loudly. He was sitting up on the bed, still on the phone and seemed to be asking a lot of angry questions. I didn’t like the look on his face when he hung up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” he got out of bed and went to the dresser, cursing under his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sat up, “What? Where are you going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gotta meet someone, it won’t take long. I’ll be back in the morning.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took off his T-shirt and tossed it on the floor, his pale white back standing out luminous in the darkness. The clothes hangers clattered dully as he pulled a shirt from the closet and hastily started buttoning it up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I yawned and rubbed my eye, “What the hell, Boris? Seriously? You have to go in the middle of the night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you know my job, it is what it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just say no. Don’t go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I knew it was a stupid thing to say as soon as it had left my mouth, but it was too late. He stopped fumbling with the shirt buttons and looked at me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Say no? Seriously? What the fuck do you think I do for a living? I can’t say no! You have no idea what’s going on, who’s pulling the strings here! Look,” he sighed exasperatedly when I didn’t say anything but lay down again and pulled the blanket up to my chin, “this isn’t some accountant’s office or your shop job, I can’t just call in sick or hand in a month’s notice and leave, it’s complicated! It needs organizing, have to think this through properly or it’s only going to backfire.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, whatever,” I turned my back to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone chimed in the tense silence that followed. I heard him pulling on a pair of jeans, buckling the belt, opening and closing a drawer, then walking over to the bed. He sighed behind me. “Potter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bed swayed as he sat on the edge. He leaned over me and clutched my shoulder. “I don’t wanna go like this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t go then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pressed his mouth on my shoulder and exhaled through the nose, his breath warm on my neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I turned my head to look him in the eye, “Just – don’t die. Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I won’t,” he smiled and kissed me, a light peck on the lips. I put my hand on his neck and pulled him back closer to kiss him properly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You trying to make me stay?” he laughed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” I answered, dead serious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaned down again and, for a minute, everything was back to normal, but then his phone rang and he pulled away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See you in the morning,” he patted me on the shoulder and left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I reached for him without thinking as soon as I woke up the next morning, but my hand only hit the empty pillow. Confused at first, I then remembered last night. I pushed myself up on an elbow and checked my phone on the nightstand: no new messages. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I got up and walked to the living room, grabbing Boris’s red sweater from the drawer and pulling it over my head. I had hoped to see him sleeping on the sofa like I had found him on so many other mornings, but the apartment was empty. Drowsy tick of the clock. Car horns outside. Elevator cables rattling. I walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on, dropped a few spoonfuls of ground coffee in the French press then leaned against the kitchen counter and dialed Boris’s number. The sky was a clear, hopeful azure. Warm sunlight peeked through the high-rise buildings and spread over the kitchen table. Couple of seagulls circling above the next-door building. No answer. I hung up when the water rose to a boil and made myself coffee. Even though it wasn’t particularly unusual - Boris often left his phone on silent when he was at work or even forgot it somewhere entirely - I couldn’t help feeling uneasy as I always did when I couldn’t reach him. But I had a nine a.m. appointment in the shop with a client who was interested in buying our Chippendale dressing-bureau so I had to get going. I left him a quick text (</span>
  <em>
    <span>You ok? Call me</span>
  </em>
  <span>) and went to work. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After Mrs. Wilson - who even after an hour of snooping through every drawer of the bureau wasn’t convinced if it was superior to some other one she had her eye on - had left, I spent the morning dusting the shelves I had neglected over the past few weeks. Around lunchtime Hobie walked in with a huge cardboard box in his hands that he placed on the desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s this?” I walked over to him, dropped the dust cloth on the desk and peeked inside the box.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Old lady Fawcett’s things. She passed away recently, remember? I went to see Bill this morning and he wanted me to take these for the shop, free of charge. She and Welty were good friends, he thought she would’ve liked that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I looked through the things, it was mostly inexpensive bric-a-brac: figurines and old china, tarnished silver cutlery, two watches that looked of no importance. I had never met Mrs. Fawcett but knew her by reputation; these were bare scraps. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not much, I know, but still. It’s very kind of him,” Hobie was saying, holding up a saucer and running his thumb over the chipped edge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” I answered, wondering who Mr. Fawcett had sold the rest of the property to and why hadn’t we been informed of it. “Well, um, it’s a little stuffed here, I don’t know if we can fit all these things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, sure. We don’t have to sell them all, you can keep some of it. Like this,” he picked up a small porcelain poodle and laughed, “for when you’re missing Popper.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha-ha,” I let out a cheerless laugh but smiled nonetheless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyway,” he put the poodle back in the box - “I was thinking of going to the Local for lunch today. Care to join me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I locked up the shop and we walked to the White Horse. Although it was sunny outside, the air was brisk with a biting wind, a sense of winter creeping closer. We sat at the window seat. After ordering, Hobie continued the conversation we’d been having on the way - about the memoir of some long dead German poet he was currently reading - but my thoughts had inevitably spiraled back to Boris and his continued radio silence. Restless, I checked my phone under the table: no new messages. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh?” I raised my head; Hobie was looking at me across the table, squinting his eyes against the bright sunlight. “Yeah, sorry. Just waiting to hear from someone.” I put my phone back in my pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Client?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, yeah. It’s probably nothing but I think I should try calling again, sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I slid out of my chair and stepped outside where I dialed Boris’s number and leaned against the tavern’s wall, crossing my arms and pressing them close to my chest. The cold wind blowing down the street and tousling my hair had a briny scent as though there was a fishmonger’s nearby. The phone rang about half a minute then jumped to voicemail, the usual default message since he had never bothered to record one himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s me,” I spoke to the phone, staring at traffic and feeling strangely exposed on the street corner. “Just making sure you’re okay. I guess that thing is taking longer than you expected. Or you left your phone somewhere. Anyways, call me when you get this. Or come by the shop, I’ll be there the whole day. Okay. Call me.” I hung up and went back inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The food had arrived, but Hobie hadn’t touched his clam chowder yet, waiting for me to return. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sat back down. “Sorry, go ahead.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you get everything sorted?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The client.” Hobie tore a piece of bread in two, handing me one half. “Who is it? Amanda Wilson? Is she going to take the bureau?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Yeah. No, I mean, not her. It’s someone else, you don’t know her. She’s from out of town,” I lied and stirred my spoon around the soup. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. Well, if she’s not going to buy it then it’s her loss. That piece is practically museum quality, someone will turn up soon, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. You just have to give it some time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I answered though it wasn’t the bureau I was thinking about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it’s certainly lovely to have lunch with you again, I feel like I’ve hardly seen you these past few months. Keeping busy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mh?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Work things? Or something else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, you know. Not that I’m suggesting anything. Just want to know how you’re doing.” He seemed a little flustered for some reason. He gave me a small nod in the pause that followed but I wasn’t sure what he expected me to say. “You’re looking well, though,” he finally added - “Better than I’ve ever seen you, I think. I’m glad. Are you still seeing Dr. Jacobs?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Every Wednesday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes? How is she?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, we don’t really talk about her in therapy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, of course. Sorry, my bad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But it’s good, though. I like her.” I took another spoonful and twirled the piece of bread in my hand, trying to remember the phrase Boris had used when we had talked about my latest therapy session. “She has a way of guiding me, I guess. Not asking or saying stuff directly, you know. More like helping me find the answers myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds useful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. And we finally figured out the right balance for my meds so that’s definitely a progress.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Boris?” He asked after a small pause. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you seen him recently?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, yeah. No, he left town a while back. But he’s good. We talk sometimes. Did you hear back from Sotheby’s? About the armchair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, they called. They’re going to send it to me next week, I’ll let you know when they do. We could work on it together, perhaps?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? I’d love that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled. “Great.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When we got back to the shop, Hobie invited me to help him downstairs in the workshop but I declined under the pretense that I was waiting for that non-existent out of town client to stop by when I was actually waiting for Boris. Although it was a relatively busy day, it failed to distract me from the fact I still hadn’t heard anything from him. Old lady looking for a mirror for her refurbished bedroom. Brass floor lamp for a middle-aged married couple. Small group of students hunting through the knick-knacks box.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I kept telling myself I had no reason to panic, his business meetings or whatever often took longer than he expected or maybe he had gone back home and been so tired he just fell asleep, but - then again - wouldn't he call me first? He always called or texted when he was running late, he knew what I was like, it would take less than five seconds, surely he had time for that. So why hadn’t he? Every time the shop bell chimed I looked up in eager expectation, only to be swallowed by disappointment when it was another housewife out of yoga class or a pair of college kids. I didn’t go to the kitchen to make myself tea like I normally did, afraid I’d miss him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Any minute now. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Picked up Popper a few times to take him down to the workshop only to stop mid-step, return and place him back on his pillow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s probably back home sleeping. He’ll call you when he wakes up. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Checking my phone every few minutes, growing more alarmed and frustrated by the second. I knew I was overreacting - not everyone who doesn’t answer their phone is missing, presumed dead - but this was starting to feel all too familiar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I left him another three messages and two voicemails, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pick up, pick up. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Text from Pippa (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey! I know it’s a little early but what were you thinking of getting Hobie for Christmas? Because I found this…), </span>
  </em>
  <span>missed call from Arman I didn’t care to return, short phone call to Mrs. Barbour to confirm our plans for the upcoming Monday, but nothing from Boris. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Come on, pick up. Please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The same aggravating, detached tone from the other end going on and on and on until - </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stood still, the phone pressed to my ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number…</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hung up.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Overcast sky. Lingering monotone. The sound of drilling struggling to reach me from the workshop downstairs. Popchik walked over from his pillow and looked at me curiously but I had nothing to say. Slowly, I placed my phone on the desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge of my laptop. The empty hand fell to my side. The tall-case clock in the corner struck. Seven ghostly chimes that seemed to go on for an eternity. Mechanically, I walked up to the front door after the racket had died down, the bell still clanging in my head but now it was all muddled up with clocks and church bells, dark graveyards, end-of-the-world tocsin. I locked the shop door. The key turned with an abnormal, heavy thunk. I turned around. I walked back to my desk and sat down, hand over my mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The light was fading. The wind had risen, leaves and plastic bags floating down the street. Red scarf of a young woman billowing behind her. Walls groaning, lofty and dark like the inside of an old ship. Black puddles on the sidewalk. Hobie’s heavy steps going up the stairs. Water running. Street lights turning on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Vague ominous figures of furniture standing around me like old souls lost at sea. Where was he? What happened? Why was his phone disconnected? It had never happened before. Even when he didn’t pick up the first time, he’d always call an hour or two later - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Potter! What’s up?</span>
  </em>
  <span> - like nothing had happened, like I hadn’t spent the entire hour obsessing over his whereabouts, trying and failing not to imagine someone from his organization, two faceless figures, middle-aged man and a short woman for some reason, showing up at my door, </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re so sorry, there was a situation, it escalated.. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And now it had been well over an hour, two hours, three, four, five, six and nothing. Nothing. What could I do? I didn’t have anyone else to call, no one to ask from. Why hadn't I asked for Gyuri’s number? Or Myriam’s? Where did they even meet up? Where did they live? Why hadn’t I asked him sooner? Why hadn’t we made some kind of a plan, a place where we would meet, a person I could contact? Now I had no one to turn to. No one. I could still see him by the side of the car in Amsterdam. Blood on the floor. Crimson. Forming a small puddle on gray concrete. Only this time he wasn’t trying to scramble to his feet. This time I had no gun to protect him. This time I wasn’t even there. And he was lying still. Face pale. Eyes blank. Everything smeared in blood. I could almost taste it, sitting in the old, secluded shop. The salt and tin of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Theo? Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hadn’t even heard Hobie walk in. He was standing next to me, his work apron still hanging from his hand. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I sat up and hastily wiped my eyes. Luckily, it was too dark for him to see properly so I could pretend I was just rubbing my eyes from sleep. “Sorry, must have drowsed off.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I made some tea if you’d like. Are you staying for dinner? Moira is coming over tonight but we’d love for you to join us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Listening to Mrs. DeFrees talk about Edward Lear watercolors the whole evening seemed like a nightmare, but then again, so did everything. As much as I wanted to go back to the apartment and find him there - safe, unharmed, eating Doritos in front of the TV - I didn’t know what I would do if he wasn’t there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hobie still looked at me and I finally realized he was expecting an answer. “No, I think I’ll just go home, get some sleep.” I got up and went to grab my coat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before I left - standing by the front door - Hobie put his heavy, reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Is something wrong? You know you can always talk to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I looked at him. His kind, sympathetic eyes. There was a time his presence had been my sole comfort. When he was the only one I could really talk to. Sitting by the kitchen table on rainy afternoons shortly after my mother’s death, hot tea and his signature grilled cheese sandwich in front of me, telling him about my lessons, the books we were reading in English, the civil war report I had written. Soft rain tapping on the skylight, Cosmo snoring in the corner. The time when we, two grievers, had been a comfort to one another instead of the burden I had ended up being afterwards. Before everything I told him became another chore he had to take care of. I couldn’t tell him now. I had already done too much, abused his goodness too much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I forced myself to give him a weak smile, “I’m fine. Thanks,” and walked into the cold autumn night. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I walked back to the apartment, bracing myself with every step. He’s there. He’s not there. He’s there. He’s not there. Rush hour traffic on the streets, people going home to their families, their loved ones. Jack, our Australian neighbor down the hall who Boris liked to talk about rugby with, hurrying past me on the front steps - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alright mate</span>
  </em>
  <span> - I flinched at his pat on my shoulder but he was already rushing down the street as though being late for a date. The elevator doors creaked as they closed. My reflection impalpable on the metal doors. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stood in front of the apartment door for a full minute, just staring at the glossy dark brown wood. Faint sounds of TV and laughter coming from an indeterminable source. Anywhere but from the room I was so afraid to enter. I took a deep breath and inserted the key in the lock. The door clicked open. I pushed it ajar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stepped inside. “Boris?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No answer. All was darkness. The door closed behind me with a morose thunk. The air was still, morbid, like no one had lived there for years. Hands deep in coat pockets, I walked through every room, turned on every light. My unwashed coffee mug in the sink, his sweater on the sofa, blinds drawn, doors closed - everything just as I had left it in the morning. Lights blazing in every room, I stood next to our empty bed. The apartment unnerved me without him. Blank space. The sterile feel of a morgue. Everything seemed to be covered in dust. The sheets looked cold and foreign. Eerie stillness. I walked out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I knew the smart thing to do was to stay there. It was the rendezvous point, the first thing he would do (if he was still capable of doing anything) was to come there. But I couldn’t. If I did, it was certain he wouldn’t show up. I had done this before. I had done this before and I couldn’t do it again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The following night was a blur. I walked and walked with no direction. Dark busy streets. Faceless people bumping into me, cars driving past, honking, yelling. Dogs on a leash, two Dobermans. Three white lilies in a trash can. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bank of America. </span>
  </em>
  <span>FedEx truck unloading. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Commence anarchy</span>
  </em>
  <span> in huge orange letters. Lights going from red to green to red to green. Neon signs on windows. </span>
  <em>
    <span>24 hour takeaway. Boar’s Head Brand. Famous Ben’s Pizza. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It started raining at some point. Obscure, haloed lights on my glasses, water dripping off the end of my nose. Black umbrellas moving down the congested street to the dismal cadence of a funeral procession. Anonymous crowds. Wipers moving left, right, left, right, left, right. I kept thinking back to this night a few weeks before. I had come home tired and cranky, he hadn’t emptied the trash bin as usual so I said something nasty and gave him the silent treatment for the rest of the night. In bed, however, he still wrapped his arm around me, in the morning we pretended nothing had happened. Why hadn’t I said anything? Why hadn’t I turned around and faced him, apologized, made a joke, said something? I knew better than to take this for granted. How the hell had I ended up back here again? Had I learned nothing? I was supposed to know better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>One way. No parking. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Glistening drops of rain streaming down dark windows. A jogger running past. Construction sites. Narrow scaffolding. A woman with a stroller and a weeping child hanging to her hand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop it now, Eddy! Be quiet!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Paper lanterns glowing yellow through the rain. Steam and shouting. Huge red Chinese letters on a white wall. What would my dad do? Where could I run? For years I had despised our likeness, his reflection staring back at me from the mirror, his movements in my limbs, his tone and manner on my tongue. But how wrong had I been. And how right was he that he could just get up and leave. No regrets. No attachments. Why had I ever cared? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aimlessly, I walked on. Dark columns of apartment blocks, parked cars, heaps of black garbage bags. Muffled music coming from the clubs. Pushing through crowds of people chatting and laughing by the side of the street, having the time of their lives. Every now and again I stopped in the middle of the street to call him again - so suddenly that I had elicited at least three </span>
  <em>
    <span>Watch it!</span>
  </em>
  <span> coupled with juicy adjectives from the people walking behind me - but still, no matter how many times I tried: </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>If you feel you have.. </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer… We’re sorry; you have reached a number that… We’re sorry; you have… We’re sorry… We’re sorry… We’re sorry…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where was he? I didn’t even know where he had gone at night. Was he even in New York? Was he even in the country? And why, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>was his phone disconnected? Was he just in some place out of service? Was he flying somewhere? But why for so long? He said he was only going to meet someone, he should have been long back by now, it had been nearly 24 hours already (which technically meant I could turn to the police but I knew that wasn’t an option). What had he meant getting things sorted? Who had he gotten involved with? Had there been an accident? What had gone wrong? His voice kept circling in my head: </span>
  <em>
    <span>See you in the morning. See you in the morning, See you in the morning.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Then where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he warned me he would be gone longer than usual? Something had gone wrong, I knew it. And if it had, if he couldn’t come back to me and anyone found him, it would take weeks, if not months, if not lifetimes for me to find out. Legally, I was nothing to Boris. No one was obliged to show up at my door, drive me to the hospital or the morgue, offer me one of those silver foil blankets. No one cared for him and me, except us. And for us, for me, we were everything. At times, I grew angry. How could he have done this? How could he leave me waiting like this? He knew me, he knew what I’d been through, he knew what this would do to me. And then: of course he did. And that’s why he wouldn’t do this. He would run to me as soon as he could, find a way to contact me, send someone, whatever it took. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t even called. Something was wrong, something must have gone wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The buildings around me grew higher, imposing figures in the dark, but I hardly noticed until I realized I was crossing Brooklyn Bridge. I stopped. Few people nudging past me. Impersonal roar of traffic. Endless space above and under, as bleak and detached as the desert. Seagulls screeching above my head, diving down to the frothing East River with a piercing cry. Cold wind tousled my hair, blowing sparks from the end of my cigarette. Red glowing ember. The metal creaked and shuddered as though the bridge was breathing. One last exhausted breath. I could just do it. Find a quiet spot, somewhere near the docks, and just do it. It’s not like I hadn’t thought about it for years, like I hadn’t considered every possible option. Or maybe it would be better to buy something off the street. Third time's a charm, isn’t it? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights...</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glittering skyline of the city. Columns of light reflecting off dark waters. Above, all was empty. No stars. No moon. Just the dismal glow of the city sinking into the abyss. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>I walked on. Over the bridge, down the streets. My head awash. Time had no bearing on me, it stopped, undulated, turned backwards, rushed ahead, and I was walking in another realm. Boris sitting behind me on the couch, chin on my shoulder - </span><em><span>Gor’kuyu utratu, emphasis on the o - </span></em><span>his hands folded over my chest, his chapped lips moving against my neck. </span><em><span>Stop it. </span></em><span>Cinzia and I lighting candles on my mother’s birthday cake, whispering, suppressed laughter, carrying it into the living room, her fond, surprised </span><em><span>Oh! </span></em><span>drawing a sweet, amused breath and the sharp smell of lingering candle smoke, </span><em><span>Stop it, please stop,</span></em><span> Alameda going around the table, setting down plates, shouting behind a wall, her dark wrinkled hand resting on my shoulder for a small moment. </span><em><span>Aye, Captain. Fabelhaft! </span></em><span>Andy clumsily running after a soccer ball, falling face down on the grass. Ominous slam of the locker. </span><em><span>No no no no. </span></em><span>Black clouds, waves flooding the deck, merciless pull of the currents. </span><em><span>The problem essentially is that I despise boats. </span></em><span>Tunnels of streetlights. Endless claustrophobia. The empty apartment after school. Loose corner of a wallpaper, smells of bleach and dust under the kitchen sink. </span><em><span>Buy me a couple of cards, will you? I’ll be back in a sec. </span></em><span>Running up the museum steps. We never should’ve gone there. Wiping rain from her face. All my fault. </span><em><span>Stop it.</span></em><span> Smoke in the air, sharp pain in my shoulder as I stumbled forward. </span><em><span>Don’t leave it. No. Take it away from there. </span></em><span>Grit stinging my eyes, black spots swimming, the explosion lunging me forwards, off the bed - </span><em><span>Up and at ‘em, hoplites! </span></em><span>We never saw it coming. </span><em><span>See you in the morning. </span></em><span>I should have stopped this. Boris kissing me on the street, </span><em><span>Good luck. I won’t forget you. </span></em><span>I love you. </span><em><span>Shut up. </span></em><span>Gas stations at night. Lights flashing past. And the fear, fear, fear. The silhouette of my father standing in the doorway. </span><em><span>Rotten luck. Written in the stars. Sorry, kid. You can try and fight it but there’s just no way around it. </span></em><span>You’re wrong. Boris walking into the room in the shimmering morning light - </span><em><span>stop it, stop it - </span></em><span>his figure haloed and blurry. White sheets, his weight on the bed, sliding his hand over my bare side and whispering my name to the back of my neck, </span><em><span>just shut up already! </span></em><span>More rain. Bicycle whooshing past. I was heaving. My dad scraping his spoon through the chocolate sauce. </span><em><span>Thanks for giving me a second chance, kiddo. Because I made a huge mistake. </span></em><span>Huge mistake. Huge mistake. Boris laughing and throwing me an apple, the setting sun on his black hair, leaning against the hood of the car: </span><em><span>Come over here. </span></em><span>Vast green hills on either side - </span><em><span>Don’t - I’m not going to - </span></em><span>resting his hand on my waist, the red kite in the blue sky - sudden car horn, </span><em><span>hey idiot! watch where you’re going!</span></em><span> Clouds of fog unrolling along the streets, my skin sore and peeling from the sun,</span> <span>my dad howling through the Shostakovich’s Fourth, Boris rolling over in bed - </span><em><span>I will beat the everloving shit out of you -</span></em><span> My mother sitting in the subway, swaying side to side, hands folded on the lap of her pea-green coat. Her soft smile. Her light freckles. </span><em><span>Leave me alone, please, just stop doing this. </span></em><span>Boris sitting on my desk before English, throwing my eraser from one hand to the other, back and forth, back and forth, running after me in the hallway, the heavy stomp of his boots on the floor, </span><em><span>I don’t want to - stop it, stop it now! </span></em><span>Waves crashing on the side of the pool, pushing black strands of wet hair from his eyes.</span><em><span> Don’t make me say it out loud. </span></em><span>What are you - Looking into the bathroom mirror, his arms around me - </span><em><span>Off to bed, Potter - </span></em><span>in the dark leaning into me, his warm sweaty skin on mine, his breath in my ear, squeezing my hand </span><em><span>shut up just SHUT UP! </span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometime early morning, wandering the streets of Brooklyn, I was suddenly hit with the brilliant thought of going to the Polack bar. Of course! How had I been so stupid to walk around aimlessly the whole night! Of course he’d be there! They all would! We’d been there dozens of times, he had to be there! And even if he wasn’t there at the moment, Pawel would tell me where he had gone to, maybe give me someone’s number, maybe he used another phone for work I didn’t know of. Not to mention, it was only down the street from the same bar where we had bumped into each other on that divine, glorious night. How clear it all seemed suddenly! Meant to be! It would happen again, I would walk away and then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Potter! </span>
  </em>
  <span>It had to! </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eagerly, I flagged down the first cab I saw and we speeded down the empty streets, across Williamsburg Bridge, the sun rising behind me, burning treetops in amber. I clambered out of the car after shoving uncounted bills to the drivers hand and raced across the street before stopping point blank on the curb. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Maisy’s cupcakes. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Pink sign on the window. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grand opening on the 10th! 25% off everything!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, no,” I mumbled, running up and down the street, around the corner, maybe it was the wrong place? Was I remembering incorrectly? I couldn’t be. I knew that street like the back of my hand, we had walked here only a few weeks ago. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We should drop in, say hi to Pawel,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Boris had smiled, taking me by the elbow and leading me through the same awning. It was here. It had to be here. He had to be here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Exhausted, I sat down on the curb and rubbed my face with both my hands; then pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes. I stayed like that for a long while, yellow and orange spots floating beneath my eyelids. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What do I do what do I do what do I do? </span>
  </em>
  <span>At length, I removed my hands from my eyes, took a deep breath and adjusted my glasses. The street was empty, far too early for any sane person to be up and about. Somewhere further away I could hear the screech of the subway breaks. Two pigeons walked past my feet, one of them had lost all its toes on one leg to a frostbite. I exhaled slowly and took the cigarette pack from my pocket to have a smoke only to find out it was empty. All of a sudden I was fuming. I crushed the empty pack in my hand, jumped up and threw it at the garbage can, missed by a long shot, angrily stomped over and threw it again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You fucking piece of SHIT!” I shouted and kicked the dumpster so furiously I could practically feel the bone in my toe break then kicked it again and again and again until I was completely out of breath, stumbled a few steps backwards and fell back on the curb. I sat up and pressed my face to my knees, my whole body shaking. Heavy breaths filling my head. Tidal waves rising. The pavement had an unsteady, nautical drift. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please stop, please stop.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Garbage trucks slowly moving up the street. Clank and crush. I thought back to the night in the bar when I had finally told him how I felt. The still heartbeat of a moment we looked at one another and everything that mattered shifted into focus. Him and me. You and me, Boris. How we got into the cab, practically delirious with happiness. His hand on mine in the seat between us, smiling, shaking his head. Only now it was all playing backwards. Like someone had pressed the rewind button on a remote. His thumb on my knuckles. He pulls his hand back. Streetlights flashing behind him. Our eyes meet, he turns his head away. He opens the car door and steps out. How could I have allowed myself to think that this was real? That it’s going to last? In hindsight, it was all perfectly predictable. Of course he would leave. Of course something would happen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, pal,” I nearly jumped as the waste collector’s heavy hand landed on my shoulder, “you can’t sit here. We’re coming up this street.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, sorry,” I mumbled and got up. I must have looked like some jerk husband caught cheating and forced to spend the night in a dodgy bar. I stood on the pavement, leaning my back against the treacherous cupcake shop and watched the guys empty the bins. I was too tired to walk but I had given all the cash I had to the cab driver and didn’t have my credit card with me. Maybe they’d give me a lift? I watched them slowly make their way to the end of the street and turn the corner. Dead tired, I walked all the way back to the empty apartment where I immediately collapsed on the couch, too drained to think or feel and even take off my rain drenched coat, and fell asleep. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Feel free to yell at me<br/>And don't forget to check out the <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2VGzzJHuVtouQmd90pT21P?si=0_A8ac3JQWiLYfpj_vgHWg">fic playlist</a>! I added only one song for this chapter but it's IMPORTANT</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please consider leaving a comment, I'd love to get some (any) feedback :) Title from Mitski - I want you</p><p>Come talk to me on <a href="https://balalaikapattycake.tumblr.com/">tumblr!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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